STORIES 


NEW   ENGLAND    LIFE; 


OB 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

BY 

MARTHA    RUSSELL. 


I  like,  too,  that  representation  they  fthe  old  Norsemen]  hare  of  the  tree  Tgdrasyl. 
All  life  is  figured  by  them  as  a  tree.  Igdrasyl,  the  Ash-tree  of  existence,  has  its  roota 
deep  down  in  the  kingdoms  of  Hela  or  Death  ;  its  trunk  reaches  up  heaven-high,  — 
spreads  its  boughs  over  the  whole  universe :  it  is  the  tree  of  Existence .  Is  not  every 
leaf  of  it  a  biography — every  fibre  there  an  act  or  word  ?  —  CAHLYLE  . 


BOSTON: 
I  UBLISHED  BY  JOHN  P.  JEWETT  AND   COMPANY. 

CLEVELAND,  OHIO: 
HENRY   P.   B.   JEWETT. 

NEW  YORK  :  SHELDON,  LAMPORT  AND  BLAKEMAN. 

1857. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

JOHN    P.  JBWETT   &    Co.,     ^ 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


Stereotyped    by 

HOBABT   4    BOBBINS, 

R t w  Eng!  tad  Tfft  ud  StanotTp*  FtttslcTT, 


CONTENTS. 


THE  DIARY, 5 

LOVE'S  LABOR  NOT  LOST, 69 

A  TALE  OF  THE  COLONY  TIMES, 87 

UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT, 115 

AN  INCIDENT  ON  THE   SEA-«HORE, 133 

DEATH  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE, 148 

LITTLE  BESSIE, 158 


SKETCHES   OF   OUR  VILLAGE. 

I.  THE  STRIFE, 173 

H.  OUR  SCHOOL-MISTRESS, 191 

HI.  A  SABBATH  OF  1776, 201 

IV.  THE  FIRST  GRAVE, 207 

V.  MARY  GRAYSON, 218 

VI.  THE  MILLER, 230 

VH.  AN  HOUR  ON  THE  CROSSING  POLE, 257 

PHI.  THE  ALMSHOUSE  BOY,  .  .  f 269 

IX.  MELINDA  DUTTON, 294 

X.  THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN, 313 

XI.  THE  OLD  MAPLE, 322 

XII.  LILIAN  LOVIS, 344 


2092098 


THE  DIARY. 


-,  Nov.  9, 1851. 


No,  not  that  Album,  loaded  with  gilt  like  an  Eastern  slave, 
even  though  it  be  "  precisely  like  the  one  on  Lady  Blessing- 
ton's  table,"  as  the  giver,  Mr.  H ,  assures  me ;  but  this 

one,  in  plain  black,  with  only  the  design  of  the  serpent  and  the 
dove  upon  the  back.  It  is  "  plain  and  substantial,"  as  old 

Mrs.  A was  pleased  to  say  of  myself;  and  when  Harold 

T gave  it  me,  pointing  to  the  design,  he  bade  me  heed 

the  symbol  well,  saying,  in  that  calm,  grave  way  of  his,  that 
I  lacked  both  wisdom  and  gentleness.  "  My  master,"  I  should 
hardly  have  borne  that  from  any  one  else.  But  perhaps  he 
was  right  — right,  also,  when  he  said  that  a  "woman  cannot 
exist  without  a  confidant."  I  denied  it  then,  and  resented  it 
as  a  libel ;  but,  now,  after  a  four  weeks'  sojourn  with  these 
relatives,  with  whom  it  seems  impossible  to  establish  any- 
thing like  relations  of  confidence,  I  begin  to  feel  its  truth, 
else  I  should  not  be  blotting  the  blank  leaves  of  his  gift. 

N.  B.  I  wilfnever  own  as  much  to  him  ! 

I  think  I  will  dedicate  the  book  to  Vacuna,  the  goddess 
of  the  idle  ;  doubtless  many  of  my  self-constituted  advisers 
would  think  it  very  appropriate.  Not  that  I  admit  that  I 
have  any  more  of  an  inherent  proclivity  to  what,  in  their  eyes, 
constitutes  the  "sum  of  all  moral  evil" — idleness  —  than 
many  others ;  but  I  am,  unfortunately,  always  doing  those 
things  which  I  ought  not  to  do,  and  in  a  way  in  which  they 
ought  not  to  be  done ;  and,  as  Aunt  Mirick  said,  when  I  saw 
no  impropriety  in  carrying  from  Stewart's  to  her  house  a 


6  LEAVES  FROM  TOE  TREE  IdDRASTL. 

small  parcel,  containing  a  few  yards  of  silk,  "  there  w  no 
hope  for  me !  " 

•  I  know  I  am  neither  pretty  nor  graceful,  but  I  never  have 
such  a  saving  consciousness  of  the  fact,  as  when  with  my 
mother's  relatives.  I  wonder  how  much  such  remarks,  ut- 
tered in  a  tone  of  cold,  critical  commiseration,  as,  "Elizabeth 
is  so  overgrown,  so  gawky  —  Elizabeth  is  so  odd ;  she  has  no 
taste  in  dress ;  her  head  is  so  large ;  and  then,  her  feet !  —  she 
has  not  the  Sewal  look  at  all,  poor  child  ;  all  Lytton !  "  etc. 
(my  father's  alliance  being  the  one  "  blot  in  the  escutcheon  "). 
have  had  to  do  with  my  awkwardness  ?  They  are  not  partic- 
ularly calculated  to  remedy  the  defect,  I  fancy. 

Once  I  felt  all  this  keenly,  but  I  am  getting  bravely  over 
it.  My  head  and  my  feet  are  as  God  made  them ;  as  for 
taste  in  dress,  let  them  remember  that  I  have  had  no  means 
of  gratifying  it,  before  they  deny  me  its  possession  ;  and,  as 
to  lacking  the  "  Sewal  air,"  the  slightest  childish  memory 
that  I  cherish  of  my  noble  father  is  more  to  me  than  "  the 
blood  of  all  the  Sewals !  " 

There  !  There  goes  the  dinner-bell !  My  fingers  are  inky, 
my  collar  the  sixteenth  part  of  an  inch  awry ;  if  I  do  not 
stay  to  right  it,  aunt  will  be  sure  to  perceive  it ;  if  I  do,  I 
shall  be  the  sixteenth  part  of  a  minute  too  late  at  the  table, 
and  uncle  will  look  like  an  iceberg  —  between  them  both  the 
room  will  be  like  Spitsbergen.  Elizabeth  will  be  uneasy  and 
distraite  for  a  few  moments,  then  fiat  her  <finner  with  the 
self-possession  of  queen  Vashti,  of  old. 

Nov.  \Qth.  —  "A  word  fitly  spoken  is  like  apples  of  gold  in 
pictures  of  silver,"  we  are  told ;  but  who  has  not  felt  that  a 
word  fitly  withheld  is  not  less  precious  ? 

Had  I  remembered  this  yesterday,  I  should  have  refrained 
from  shocking  uncle  and  aunt  with  my  heresies,  and  saved 
myself  a  long  lecture  on  "  womanly  proprieties,"  and  "  wo- 
man's sphere,"  this  morning. 

Though  some  moments  too  late,  I  was  happily  disappointed 


THE   DIARY.  7 

on  entering  the  dining-room,  for  uncle  was  too  busily  occupied 
in  talking  with  an  old  gentleman  to  notice  my  tardiness, 
though  the  exquisite  French  time-piece  on  the  mantel  stared 

him  straight  in*  the  face.  Mr.  H ,  aunt's  nephew,  had 

dropped  in  to  dinner. 

Query, —  What  brings  him  here  so  often  of  late  ?  An  in- 
creasing appreciation  of  his  aunt's  cuisini&re,  or  the  laudable 
desire  to  keep  himself  in  practice,  by  playing  off  his  Euro- 
pean fascinations  on  a  country  teacher  ? 

He  certainly  is  handsome ;  and  as  aunt  and  he  sat  there, 
both  so  carefully  dressed,  so  seemingly  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  rents  and  dust,  lint  and  wrinkles,  missing  buttons  and 
hooks-and-eyes,  are  a  part  of  the  evils  consequent  upon  "Ad- 
am's fall,"  it  would  have  been  an  inexpressible  relief  to  me 
to  have  seen  a  speck  of  dust  on  either  of  them ;  —  ay,  to 
have  proved  their  affinity  for  "  dust  and  ashes,"  like  other 
mortals,  I  would  have  been  willing  to  encounter  a  slight  si- 
rocco, or  that  cloud  which  Christian  saw  at  the  house  of  the 
Interpreter,  even  at  the  expense  of  my  new  marron  merino, 
in  which  I  fancied  I  was  looking  remarkably  well. 

H greeted  me  with  his  blandest  smile,  and  uncle  intro- 
duced "  my  niece  "  to  his  guest,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Smith.  Uncle's 
manner  of  introducing  me  as  "my  niece,"  —  a  title  which  he 
evidently  considers  sufficiently  distinctive  for  any  reasonable 
young  lady,  —  causes  some  mistakes ;  for  his  guests  inva- 
riably address  me  as  Miss  Sewal.  This  old  gentleman  did 
the  same,  and  when  I  set  him  right,  he  said  : 

"  Ah  !  ay,  yes  ;  the  daughter  of  your  sister  Elizabeth,  Mr. 
Sewal.  I  remember  your  mother,  my  child,  when  she  was 
scarce  as  old  as  yourself.  She  married,  let  me  see  —  a  — " 

"  An  editor,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  think  I  met  him  once  or  twice  during  the 
sitting  of  the  Association  in  this  city,  some  —  well  —  some 
twenty-five  years  ago.  How  time  does  fly  !  He  is  well,  I 
hope." 


8  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDBASYL. 

"  I  trust  so,"  I  said,  my  eyes  filling  with  tears.  But 
before  I  could  gather  courage  to  go  on  uncle  had  answered 
for  me : 

"  Mr.  Lytton  is  dead,  sir." 

"  Indeed ! "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  concern. 
"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  might  have  heard  it, 
but  we  old  folks  forget.  But  your  mother,  —  is  she  still  in 
the  city?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  I  calmly,  for  uncle's  cold  tones  had 
recalled  me  to  myself;  "  my  father's  health  failed  soon  after 
his  marriage,  and  my  mother  accompanied  him  to  his  native 
village,  where  he  died  when  I  was  five  years  old.  Mother 
and  I  have  continued  to  live  at  the  old  place,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  short  residence  at  G two  years  ago." 

"  And  it  seems  but  a  few  months  since  your  mother  was 
here,  a  girl,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  kindly  at  me.  "  But 
you  are  not  like  her,  child,  unless  it  be  about  the  mouth." 

"  My  niece  is  all  Lytton,  as  I.  tell  her,"  said  my  uncle,  as 
we  seated  ourselves  at  the  table. 

So  this  old  man  had  known  my  mother  before  trials,  and 
poverty,  and  sorrow,  had  changed  her,  and  I  determined  to 
make  him  my  friend,  if  possible,  and  see  if  I  could  not  get 
from  him  some  better  conception  of  what  she  was  like  in  her 
youth,  than  I  had  obtained  from  her  own  family,  —  some- 
thing beside  descriptions  of  her  beauty,  coupled  with  ill- 
concealed  regrets  that  she  should  have  "thrown  herself 
away  "  upon  a  poor  editor,  who  was  "  only  a  farmer's  son."" 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was  more  occupied  with  these 
thoughts  than  with  the  doctor's  "  grace,"  which  was  scarcely 
ended,  when  aunt,  reaching  forward  to  adjust  the  fall  of  my 
lerthe,  whispered  : 

"That  dress  of  yours  is  far  too  large,  dear;  it  wrinkles 
quite  badly  under  the  arm;  and  your  braids  on  the  left 
side  are  slipping  down.  Order  is  Heaven's  first  law,  you 
know." 


THE   DIAKY.  9 

Dear  Vacuna,  I  had  met  aunt's  chambermaid's  little  tod- 
dling nephew  in  the  passage,  as  I  came  down,  and,  oblivious 
of  hair-pins  and  braids,  had  stopped  to  toss  him  "  up  to  the 
moon."  But  I  did  not  tell  aunt  this,  —  I  had  too  much  regard 
for  myself  and  "bubby  Lee," — I  merely  said,  as  I  coolly  cut 
my  chicken : 

"  Just  so,  aunt ;  but,  as  we  happen  to  be  still  on  earth,  I 
hold  it  to  be  wiser  to  comply  with  earth's  laws ;  perhaps,  in 
this  way,  we  shall,  in  time,  come  to  understand  and  fulfil 
those  of  a  higher  sphere." 

Aunt  looked  a  little  confused,  as  I  have  noticed  she  not 
(infrequently  does,  at  my  remarks ;  and  the  old  doctor,  inter- 
rupting himself  in  some  remark,  asked  : 

"  What  was  that  you  were  saying  about  a  higher  sphere  ? — 
a  favorite  phrase  with  the  young  people  of  the  present  day, 
Mr.  Sewal." 

"  I  was  merely  saying  that  whatever  may  be  the  laws  of  a 
higher  sphere,  full  play  for  the  lungs  is  very  essential  here." 

H laughed,  and  the  old  man,  after  a  bland,  "  Very 

true ;  I  am  glad  you  understand  something  of  the  wonderful 
mechanism  of  the  human  frame,"  turned  to  dissecting  Dr. 
Bushnell  and  his  heresies,  and,  assisted  by  uncle  and  aunt, 
succeeded  pretty  thoroughly.  I  ventured,  once  or  twice,  to 
put  in  a  sort  of  disclaimer,  in  the  shape  of  a  question,  and 

H gallantly  seconded  me ;  but  we  were  calmly  put  down 

by  a  gentle  hint  that  the  carnal  mind  could  not  judge  upon 
such  matters ;  and  I  sat  and  wondered  if  the  human  mind 
had  really  so  changed  since  the  poor  and  ignorant,  the  pub- 
lican and  sinner,  had  gladly  accepted  the  truth,  as  it  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Jesus  by  the  blue  waters  of  the  seas  of 
Palestine. 

Then  they  went  into  the  condition  of  the  world  in  general, 
and  I  grew  quite  sad  at  hearing  how  fast  all  Christendom 
was  retrograding  into  chaos  and  old  night ;  and  yet,  a  few 
moments  before,  in  his  "  grace  before  meat,"  that  kind  old 


10          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

man  had  fervently  thanked  God  for  all  the  "  manifold  bless- 
ings which  of  his  own  good  will  and  pleasure  he/  had  showered 
upon  us ;  but,  most  of  all,  that  he  had  given  us  our  being  in 
this  land  of  Gospel  light  and  Gospel  privileges."  It  is 
strange  how  much  acceptance  I  find  in  the  world,  and  how 
little  intelligent  belief.  These  people  were  sincere,  and 
would  have  "thought  one  mad  who  questioned  their  ortho- 
doxy ;  yet,  if  I  took  them  at  their  word,  they  were  practical 
atheists,  denying  the  power  of  truth  to  regenerate  the 
world. 

Uncle  is  a  born  conservative,  "  dyed  in  the  wool,"  with  a 
perfect  horror  of  all  restless,  vulgar  innovators,  who  threaten 
to  disturb  anything,  from  the  tie  of  his  white  cravat  to  the 
foundations  of  a  state.  He  would  ignore  time  himself,  if 
possible.  But  with  Dr.  Smith  it  is  different.  One  can 
readily  perceive  how  his  conservatism  is  but  the  natural 
growth  of  that  innate  principle  which  is  developed  by  years 
and  success  in  life,  aided  not  a  little  by  an  unquestioning 
adherence  to  certain  theological  notions,  which  have,  spider- 
like,  spun  theii;  web  so  completely  over  his  heart,  that  he  has 
almost  forgotten  the  warm,  gushing,  sympathetic  throbs  of 
its  youth,  or  remembers  them  only  with  a  pitying  smile,  as 
youthful  enthusiasms.  Enthusiasm !  Would  that  we  could 
"  be  true  to  the  dreams  of  our  youth  I "  Would  that  we 
could  take  them  with  us,  as  blessed  realities,  down  the  shady 
slopes  of  life !  Then  old  age  would  not  be  so  meagre  and 
barren. 

So  I  mused,  until  the  exclamation,  "It  is  astonishing !  " 
which  usually  forms  the  affix  and  suffix  to  all  uncle's  remarks 
on  religion  and  morals,  roused  me.  "  It  is  really  astonishing 
how  sensible  people,  Christian  people,  can  be  so  blind.  I  do 
not  blame  the  south.  Were  they  to  come  here,  sir,  and  make 
such  demands  on  us,  we  should  see  the  impropriety,  the 
absurdity,  at  once.  But  that  such  men  as  Messrs.  C  • 
and  G can  be  so  led  away,  is  incredible." 


THE  DIAEY.  11 

"  All  the  result  of  narrow,  sectional  views,  and  a  restless 
desire  to  forestall  the  workings  of  Providence,"  blandly 
answered  the  old  doctor. 

They  had  actually  begun  "to  agitate,"  those  two  staid 
pillars  of  conservatism,  and  I  opened  my  ears,  for  I  knew 
that  among  my  many  unknown  heresies  which  I  had  thought 
best  to  leave  to  the  unfolding  hand  of  time,  my  "  abolition- 
ism," in  their  eyes,  would  be  the  rankest.  I  thought  of  the 

days  in  Gr ,  when,  from  every  lesson  and  every  object, 

"  my  master  "  (I  like  the  old,  sportive  title  best)  was  wont  to 
deduce  arguments  in  favor  of  liberty  and  progress ;  and  how, 
in  the  spirit  of  opposition,  I  sought  every  argument  on  the 
opposite  side,  until  obliged  to  yield.  Those  were  hot  battles! 
He  would  never  yield  an  inch  to  the  sex,  —  never  condescend 
to  say  I  might  possibly  be  right ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
treated  me  as  an  equal,  capable  of  thinking  for  myself,  not 
as  a  pet  or  puppet.  I  did  not  fully  appreciate  this,  then ; 
but  now,  ay,  I  see  it  is  necessary  to  get  at  a  distance  from 
some  people,  as  well  as  pictures,  to  see  them  truly.  I  won- 
der, if  we  were  to  meet  again,  if  we  should  resume  the  war ; 
I  wonder  —  but  enough  of  this.  What  I  would  say  is  this, 

that  T 's  lessons  had  fully  qualified  me  to  understand  the 

subject,  and  I  asked  inquiringly,  and,  I  must  confess,  rather 
mischievously : 

"  But  does  not  God  make  use  of  human  instruments  to 
carry  out  his  plans*  sir  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  child ;  but  not,  I  fear,  of  such  incendiaries 
as  our  modern  reformers,  —  men  who  have  cast  off  all 
authority,  save  that  of  their  blinded,  seared  consciences,  nor 
of  their  ignorant,  fanatical  followers.  Poor  tools  these,  to 
do  the  work  of  the  Lord !  " 

Ah,  if  the  appointed  teachers  refuse  to  lead  the  people 
over  Jordan  into  the  promised  land,  shall  they  grumble  if  the 
office  pass  from  the  tribe  of  Levi,  and  hands  consecrated  only 
by'an  earnest  love  for  humanity  take  up  the  sacred  ark  of 


12  LEAVES   FROM   THE   TREE   IGDRASYL. 

truth  ?  Thus  I  thought,  but  I  did  not  say  it ;  only  sug- 
gested that  he  might  possibly  misunderstand  these  men. 
Moreover,  they  were  but  a  small  portion  of  the  supporters 
of  the  anti-slavery  cause. 

Uncle  gave  me  a  look  that  seemed  to  say  that  women  were 
to  be  seen,  not  heard,  and  took  up  the  conversation  just 
where  it  had  stood  before  my  interference. 

"  Quite  right,  doctor;  but  something  must  be  done  to  put 
down  these  elements  of  disorganization,  so  rife  among  us. 
The  church  and  the  ministry  are  our  only  hope ;  and,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  these  are  becoming  infected.  Why,  Messrs 

M and  S have  left  our  church,  Dr.  H 's  church, 

because  they  are  too  righteous  to  commune  with  slave- 
holders!" 

"  I  heard  it  with  sorrow,  Mr.  Sewal ;  but  while  we  deplore 
their  errors,  we  must  not  forget  that  they  are  brethren,  — 
sincere,  no  doubt,  but  victims  of  a  restless  spirit  of  change 
and  the  pride  of  human  reason.  Let  the  mind  once  get  loose 
from  sound,  orthodox  moorings,  and  there  is  no  telling  where 
it  will  go ;  it  is  a  melancholy  fact.  If  these  men  were  guided 
less  by  what  they  term  reason,  and  more  by  a  spirit  of 
humility  and  prayer,  they  would  be  led  to  see  how  even 
human  bondage  may  be  reconciled  with  the  law  of  love,  and 
conduce  to  the  salvation  of  this  poor  benighted  race." 

All  the  while,  during  this  speech,  I  had  felt  what  aunt 
calls  the  "  Lytton  spirit  "  rising  within  *me,  and  before  the 
old  gentleman  ceased  it  had  risen  to  my  lips.  But  I  mas- 
tered it,  and  said,  quietly,  "  Pardon  me,  sir.  A  few  moments 
since  you  were  kind  enough  to  explain  to  me  why  such  men 

as  G and  S cannot  be  instruments  of  Providence, 

and  yet,  if  I  apprehend  you  aright  now,  we  are  to  view  the 
miscreants  employed  in  the  slave  trade  as  so  many  mission- 
aries engaged  in  the  conversion  of  souls." 

Uncle  arched  his  eyebrows  to  a  point,  in  surprise  and  hor 
ror,  but  the  good  old  doctor  only  smiled  benevolently  as  -he 


THE   DIART.  18 

said,  "  What  an  absurd  conclusion,  my  dear  Miss  Lytton ; 
but  a  fair  specimen  of  womanly  logic.  By  no  means ;  I 
would  be  the  last  to  justify  evil ;  but  there  are  some  things 
which  we  do  not  understand,  —  some  things  permitted  to  us, 
as  to  the  ancient  Hebrews,  perhaps,  on  account  of  the  hard- 
ness of  our  hearts.  But  this  we  do  know :  that  God  permits 
these,  doubtless  for  some  wise  end ;  that,  though  he  moves  in 
a  mysterious  way,  he  can  and  doth  overrule  them  all  for  his 
own  glory  and  the  salvation  of  man.  We  must  not  attempt 
to  pry  into  the  secret  counsels  of  the  Almighty." 

I  disclaimed  any  such  intention,  seeing  that  a  dozen  lives 
would  not  suffice  to  comprehend  the  revelations  He  had  given 
us,  through  inspiration  and  nature ;  but,  as  this  was  a  subject 
connected  with  the  degradation  or  elevation  of  man,  I  thought 
it  might  be  discussed  in  all  its  bearings  without  once  being 
guilty  of  that  sin.  "  But,"  I  went  on,  "  I  do  not  feel  con- 
vinced that  my  inference  was  incorrect.  These  men  must 
either  be  doing  right  or  wrong,  serving  God  or  the  devil, 
carrying  ojit  his  plans  or  acting  in  direct  violation  of  that 
law  which  we  are  told  is  the  holiest  of  all ;  and,  hypocriti- 
cal, wicked,  selfish  as  they  are,  I  do  not  believe  one  of  them 
dare  make  to  his  own  conscience  the  excuse  that  he  is  serv- 
ing his  Maker.  They  know  it  is  wrong  and  unutterably  sel- 
fish ;  but,  as  long  as  the  wise,  and  learned,  and  pious,  abet 
them  in  their  practice,  they  will  continue  to  follow  it.  But, 
that  God  sanctions  such  things  "  [uncle  gave  me  a  look,  — 
why,  such  a  one  as  Balaam  might  have  given  his  ass,  —  but 
my  spirit  was  up  and  I  kept  on]  ;  "  that  the  infinite,  all-wise 
Creator  cannot  carry  out  his  plans  without  such  agencies ; 
that  the  unspeakable  horrors  of  the  slave-ship  and  the  inter- 
nal traffic  are  a  part  of  the  '  divine  economy ; '  that  millions 
of  human  beings  must  perish  by  the  hands  of  their  civilized 
brethren  before  a  remnant  can  be  saved,  is  what  I  will  not, 
cannot  believe.  The  intellect  and  heart  revolt  at  it.  I  would 
sooner  be  a  pagan  than  accept  such  a  God  as  that f " 


14  LEAVES  FROM  THE  T&EE  IGDKASYL.. 

Had  a  Paixhan  shot  fallen  in  our  midst,  it  could  not  have 
excited  greater  consternation  and  horror  than  my  poor  words. 
Uncle,  with  his  silver  fork  arrested  midway  between  his 
mouth  and  the  table,  looked  as  if  the  powers  of  speech,  and 
what  he  prizes  quite  as  highly,  mastication,  had  deserted  him 
forever ;  aunt  set  down  her  tumbler,  and  crossed  her  hands 
with  an  indescribable  air,  as  if  she  saw,  behind  my  abolition- 
ism, bloomerism,  woman's-rightsism,  fourierism,  sedition,  arson 

and  murder ;  H forgot  his  usual  retenue,  and  sat  pouring 

the  gravy  unconsciously  over  his  plate,  while  the  old  doctor, 
with  a  despondent  shake  of  the  head,  and  with  a  tone,  in 
which  grave  reproof  struggled  with  real  kindness,  replied, 

"  Very  likely,  for  '  the  carnal  heart  is  at  enmity '  with 
God ;  and,  my  young  friend,  if  we  take  your  words  as  a  cri- 
terion, I  fear  we  shall  find  you  look  at  this  subject  with 
anything  but  an  eye  of  humble,  trusting  faith.  You  are 
tinctured  with  the  besetting  sin  of  the  age,  the  pride  of  hu- 
man reason,  that  blind  guide  which  leads  so  many  astray. 
It  is  a  poor  prop,  my  child,' — a  poor  prop,  as  you  will  find 
sooner  or  later.  Not  until  you  are  willing  to  cast  it  aside 
and  look  at  this  great  subject  with  an  humble,  unquestioning 
spirit,  will  the  wisdom  of  the  overruling  hand  be  made  appa- 
rent to  you.  Not  to  the  carnally-minded,  to  the  proud  of 
heart,  are  these  things  made  known,  but  to  babes  and  suck- 
lings." 

Old  age !  old  age !  White  hairs  and  furrowed  brows !  0,  what 
a  power  ye  have  to  move  this  self-willed  heart  of  mine  !  As 
I  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  met  the  calm  but  faded  blue  eyes 
bent  on  me  half  in  sorrow,  half  in  surprise,  and  thought  how, 
in  early  youth,  the  foundations  of  his  faith  had  been  laid  in 
sincerity  and  prayer;  how  it  had  grown  with  his  growth, 
and  strengthened  with  his  strength,  until  it  enclosed  him,  as 
within  a  consecrated  temple,  whose  pillars  were  intertwined 
with  dear  heart-memories,  hopes  that  lived  now,  only  in  the 
light  of  faith,  sorrows  that  had  grown  into  hopes  ;  I  felt  how 


.      THE   DIARY.  15 

worthy  of  all  respect  is  every  form  or  creed  that  has  typified 
truth  to  the  human  soul,  and,  stretching  forth  my  hand  to  the 
old  man,  was  about  to  try  to  translate  something  of  this  feel' 
ing  into  words,  when  uncle's  jaws  collapsed,  and  he  inter- 
rupted me,  in  his  coldest,  most  frigid  tones  : 

"  Elizabeth — Miss  Lytton — I  am  astonished,  perfectly  as- 
tonished, to  hear  such  sentiments  advanced  by  a  woman,  and 
a  relative  of  mine  !  Good  heavens  !  what  are  we  coming  to  ? 
Let  me  tell  you,  that  the  ladies  of  your  mother's  family  found 
ample  room  for  their  talents  in  the  sphere  which  God  assigned 
them,  domestic  life.  They  were  early  taught  that  woman's 
province  is  to  obey,  not  reason." 

The  tone  roused  my  antagonism  at  once,  and  I  said,  coldly, 

"  Then,  I  am  very  sorry  for  them,  uncle ;  for,  wide  as  that 
sphere  is,  ignorant  and  narrow-minded  men  can  narrow  it 
down  until  it  becomes  little  better  than  slavery.  Besides, 
as  God  has  actually  endowed  them  with  reason,  they  must 
find  it  extremely  difficult,  at  times,  to  obey  both  God  and 
man." 

"I  see  no  such  difficulty,"  he  condescended  to  reply;  "but, 
perhaps,  the  wisdom  of  this  age  may  enlighten  me.  As  to 
ignorance  and  narrowness,  of  course  that  is  not  the  question 
with  our  family  ;  "  and,  with  an  air  that  seemed  to  say  that 
the  question  of  woman's  right  to  a  separate  individuality  was 
settled  forever,  he  began  discussing  the  new  postal  arrange- 
ments, which  H had  started,  and  from  that  they  went  to 

"non-intervention,"  Kossuth,  etc. 

I  felt  choked ;  I  care  not  how  much  a  person  differs  from 
me,  I  can  respect  his  notions  and  try  to  understand  his 
views,  if  he  will  only  let  me  speak  out  my  thought,  and 
respect  that  as  it  is  worthy.  But  this  looking  askance  at  all 
one  says, —  this  taking  a  poor  soul's  words  with  the  tongs  and 
throwing  them  out  the  window,  or  fumigating  them  with  salt 
and  vinegar  until  there  is  no  life  in  them,  before  they  are  per- 
mitted to  cross  the  threshold, — saddens  me.  I  would  have  each 


16  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TBEE  IODRASYL. 

one  speak  out  his  own  convictions  truly,  aud  take  them,  rich 
or  poor,  as  a  godsend.  We  should  lose  something  in  smooth- 
ness  and  polish ;  many  relations,  now  dovetailed  together  with 
such  care,  would  find  themselves  breaking  apart ;  but  we  should 
be  infinite  gainers  in  honesty,  harmony  and  truth. 

JV<w.  14*A.  —  Scene,  a  beautifully  furnished  room,  the 
chairs,  tables,  sofa,  w/iat-not,  etc.,  drawn  up  against  the  wall 
with  as  much  precision  as  a  company  of  the  great  Frederick's 
soldiers, — Miss  Elizabeth  Lytton  seated  on  an  ottoman,  read- 
ing Mrs.  Browning's  noble  poem,  "  Casa  Guidi  Windows." 
Enter  Aunt  Sewal,  who  goes  through  with  a  critical  review 
of  the  furniture,  occasionally  passing  her  delicate  cambric 
handkerchief  over  it,  to  see  if  Mary  has  left  a  particle  of 
dust,  while  she  keeps  up  a  kind  of  miserere  over  the  care- 
lessness of  servants,  and  the  troubles  of  housekeepers  in 
general. 

"Dear  me,  Mary  has  n't  half  dusted  the  room !  It  is  too 
bad  to  hire  servants  and  do  your  work  yourself !  And  that 
Sophie,  too !  Elizabeth,  don't  you  think  that  Sophie  has 
completely  ruined  my  elegant  coffee-pot,  —  melted  off  the 
spout !  I  do  feel  as  if  I  should  fly  every  time  I  think  of  it ! 
Such  an  elegant  one  as  it  was  ! " 

Elizabeth  is  buried  in  this  passage,  — 

«       "  The  dead  upon  their  awful  vantage  ground, 

The  sun  not  in  their  faces,  shall  abstract 
No  more  our  strength  ;  we  will  not  be  discrowned, 

Though  treasuring  their  crowns,  nor  deign  transact 
A  barter  for  the  present,  in  a  sound 

For  what  was  counted  good  in  foregone  days. 
0,  dead,  ye  shall  no  longer  cling  to  us  ' 

we  will  not  be  oblivious 

Of  our  own  lives  because  ye  lived  before, 

Nor  of  our  acts  because  ye  acted  well  ; 
We  thank  ye  that  ye  first  unlatched  the  door,  — 

We  will  not  make  it  inaccessible 
By  thankings  in  the  door-way  any  more,"  etc.,  - 


THE   DIAHY.  17 

und  looks  up,  with  all  the  glorious  hopes  it  suggests  warming 
her  heart,  and  exclaims, 

"  How  beautiful ! " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  twice  as  handsome  as  Mrs.  A 's,  and 

cost  only  the  same.  And  to  think  it  should  be  spoiled  ! " 

Elizabeth  opens  her  great,  gray  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  How 
—  what,  aunt  ?  —  I  don't  quite  understand  !  " 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not;  no  one  ever  does  think  it  worth  while 
to  understand  me  or  my  troubles,  —  your  uncle  never  does. 
As  long  as  everything  is  on  the  table  at  the  precise  moment, 
he  never  asks  how  it  has  been  done,  or  how  much  I  have  been 
tried.  I  said  that  careless  Sophie  has  melted  off  the  spout 
to  my  coffee-pot." , 

It  was  evident  that  aunt's  usual  pattern-like  equanimity 
was  sorely  disturbed,  and  that  she  expected  me  to  sympathize 
with  her ;  but,  having  never  experienced  the  loss  of  a  coffee- 
urn  spigot,  I  was  somewhat  at  loss  what  to  say  or  do ;  so  I 
merely  suggested  that  it  could  be  mended. 

"  Mended  !  —  an  old,  tinkered,  mended  thing  on  my  table  !  " 
(N.  13.  Aunt  prides  herself  on  setting  the  nicest  table  in  the 

neighborhood.)  "  What  would  the  E s  and  the  F s 

think  ?  " 

I  ventured  another  suggestion,  that  she  might  purchase 
another.  And  so  she  might,  she  hoped,  a  dozen  if  she  chose, 
but  they  would  not  be  half  so  good  as  her  old  one.  Mr. 

R 's  assortment !  she  did  n't  want  any  one  to  tell  her  about 

such  things.  Her  old  one  was  worth  a  dozen  of  them  ;  she 
had  used  it  two  years,  and  not  a  dent  in  it.  What  did 
I  know  about  coffee-pots  ? 

I  saw  my  failure,  and  tried  another  tack,  —  Sophie's  sor- 
row over  the  accident,  —  but  this  was  only  adding  fuel  to  the 
fire. 

Well  she  might  be  sorry.  To  know  no  better  than  to  set 
her  urn  down  before  a  red-hot  range,  after  all  she  had  dono 


18  LEA VK3  FROM  XHK  TR££  IGDRASV/.. 

for  her,  too  !  And  she  tripped  out  of  the  room  to  receive  a 
morning  call,  and  pour  her  sorrows  into  a  more  appreciating 
ear,  I  trust. 

As  for  me,  the  steam  from  that  unfortunate  urn  had  com- 
pletely dissolved  my  dreams  of  a  glorious  future  for  Italy ;  so 
I  sat  and  wondered  why  aunt's  servants  were  supposed  to  be 
under  such  infinite  obligations  to  her,  unless,  indeed,  she  looked 
at  the  matter  philosophically,  and  considered  herself  in  the 
light  of  a  Heaven-sent  trial,  to  exercise  them  in  the  rare  virtue 
of  patience. 

Nov.  14th.  —  I  was  sitting  by  the  table  to-day —  improvis- 
ing all  sorts  of  designs  upon  a  piece  of  Bristol  board,  and 
thinking  over  my  first  lesson  in  drawing,  and  the  quizzical 
face  of  "  my  master,"  when  he  asked  me  whether  it  was  in- 
tended for  a  horse  or  a  house  —  when  aunt  looked  up  from  the 
wristband  she  was  stitching,  and  asked  what  I  was  doing. 

"  Not  much  of  anything,"  I  answered.  "  I  sat  down  to 
make  a  horse  for  little  bubby  Lee." 

^  Is  that  child  here  again,  to-day  ?  "  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  No,  I  promised  him  some  days  ago." 

"  I  really  should  think,  Elizabeth,  that  child  bad  enough  to 
spoil  him,  without  you.  His  mother  and  grandmother  make 
a  fool  of  him ;  and  Mary,  she  must  be  running  home  every 
other  day  to  see  him  ;  or,  what  is  worse,  he  is  brought  over 
here.  I  shall  put  a  stop  to  this.  I  can't  abide  children  !  " 

I  looked  up  in  her  pretty,  delicate,  well-kept  face,  in  won- 
dering surprise ;  but  when,  a  moment  after,  she  turned  and 
spoke  so  caressingly  to  her  pet  canary,  I  knew  that  in  the 
above  assertion  she  had  belied  herself  and  the  good  God. 
Earth  without  children  !  0,  I  do  not  believe  that  He  sends  a 
single  soul  into  this  world,  to  bear  long,  weary  years  of  toil 
and  sorrow,  unbrightened  by  the  love  for  little  children  !  No, 
nor  that  heaven  can  be  heaven  without  childish  faces  and 
childish  voices ;  or  that  paradise  was  quite  paradise  without 


THE   DIARY  19 

them !  I  did  not  shock  aunt  by  my  heresies,  however,  but 
said,  gayly, 

"  0,  I  don't  wonder  at  Mary  !  If  I  had  such  a  nephew,  I 
would  go  twice  as  far  to  get  a  look  at  his  healthy,  happy  face, 
any  day.  It  is  enough  to  put  one  in  good  humor  for  a  month. 
I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  boy !  " 

I  had  shocked  her,  but  had  only  time  to  catch  her  "  Why, 
Elizabeth  Lytton  !  "  when  a  hearty  laugh,  followed  by  a  deep 
voice,  crying,  "  A  right,  true,  honest,  womanly  wish  !  Stick 
to  the  truth,  Bessie,  and  shame  the  devil ! "  started  me,  and  I 

turned  to  see  the  ample  proportions  of  Dr.  G filling  the 

door-way,  while  his  cheerful,  intelligent  face  beamed  down 
upon  us  from  above  the  barriers  of  his  fur  collar,  warm,  heart- 
inspiring  as  the  sun  itself. 

I  sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  for  a  short  illness  has  made 
me  acquainted  with  his  excellences,  and,  what  is  better,  won 
him  to  be  my  friend,  but  stopped  short  when  he  moved  his 
broad  shoulders  aside,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  accompanied  by 

H and  Harold  T ;  T ,  whom  I  had  not  met  in 

more  than  a  year. 

I  fancy  I  have  some  control  over  my  nerves,  but  this  rush- 
ing current  of  blood  is  quite  another  thing.  I  felt  it  pouring 
to  my  heart  like  water  in  a  mill-race,  impelling  me  to  spring 
forward  and  meet  him ;  but  I  mastered  it,  and  listened,  as, 
with  my  hand  buried  in  his  great  palm,  the  doctor  went  on, 

"  Get  along,  H ,  and  pay  your  respects  to  your  aunt. 

Mr.  T ,  let  me  introduce  you  to  a  young  friend  of  mine, 

Miss  Elizabeth  Lytton,  a  good,  sensible  sort  of  a  girl,  who, 
if  it  were  not  for  a  certain  Lydia  Mason  —  well,  well,  if 
there  were  no  ifs  in  the  world  some  strange  things  would 
happen." 

This  Lydia  Mason  is  no  other  than  the  doctor's  excellent 
wife,  who,  according  to  him,  stands  in  the  way  of  his  wedding 

as  many  wives  as  Solomon.  I  turned  to  T ;  but,  0, 

Egypt,  Thebes,  Karnac  and  Luxor !  ye  contain  not  within 


20          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

your  mysterious  temples  one  figure  which  can  outrival,  tho  calm 
immobility  and  cool  indifference  of  his  face,  as,  slightly  touch- 
ing my  hand,  he  passed  the  usual  compliments,  and  moved  on 
to  be  introduced  to  my  aunt. 

What  could  it  mean  ?  He  was  the  successful  lawyer  now ; 
did  he  mean  to  ignore  all  memories  and  things  connected  with 
his  earlier  struggles  ?  Possibly  so ;  and  for  one  moment  I  felt 
what  Agassiz  means  by  "  Ice  Periods." 

The  old  doctor  drew  me  along  to  a  quiet  sofa,  and  soon  I 
roused  myself  enough  to  listen  to  his  conversation ;  it  was  all 

of  T .     His  father  had  been  an  old  college  friend  of  his, 

a  man  of  unstable  mind,  who  was  unfortunate  in  everything, 
if  a  man  could  really  be  said  to  be  unfortunate  who  possessed 
such  a  son  (the  doctor  is  childless) — "the  noblest,  best  boy 
that  ever  lived ;  the  kindest,  most  considerate  of  sons" — and, 

though  T had  never  spoken  to  me  much  of  his  youth, 

I  knew  it  must  have  been,  so  —  "  mother,  a  lovely  woman,  died 
when  he  was  a  mere  boy,  —  he  's  the  very  image  of  her,  — 
poor  Ellen  Bryne !  I  knew  her  as  a  girl;"  and  the  good  man's 
great,  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  gazed  proudly  upon 
T ,  who  stood  talking  with  aunt. 

"  She  was  a  cousin  of  mine,"  he  added, — and  it  was  well  he 
did  so,  for  I  began  to  wonder  if  some  Lydia  Mason  had  not 
stood  between  them,  so  marked  was  his  interest,  —  "  my  cous- 
in, and  her  boy  inherited  her  spirit ;  educated  himself,  grad 
uated  with  high  honor,  and  had  just  commenced  the  study  of 

law  in  the  office  of  Judge  B ,  when  the  man,  in  whose 

hands  the  remnant  of  their  property  was  deposited,  failed,  and 
left  his  father,  broken  down,  feeble,  purposeless  and  energy- 
less,  dependent  upon  him  for  support.  He  gave  up  his  studies 
at  once,  and  took  the  situation  of  principal  of  an  academy  in 
—  well,  somewhere  in  your  region,  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  can 
remember  the  place,  but  somewhere  on  the  Sound." 

There  was  no  need  of  his  remembering  —  I  did. 

"  He  staid  there  two  years,  when  his  father  happily  died 


THE    DIARY.  21 

M 

Don't  stare  at  me  for  saying  happily,  child.  I  did  n't  pre- 
scribe for  him ;  besides,  you  cannot  have  lived  in  the  world 
thus  long,  without  seeing  that  there  are  some  people  in  it 

who  are  evidently  out  of  place.  Mr.  T was  one  of  them 

—  so  he  happily  died. 

"  Now  his  son  is  a  member  of  the  New  Haven  bar,  one  of 
the  most  talented  of  his  class,  and  is  here,  as  counsel  in  the 
great  case  of '  Higgins  versus  Howe.'  A  noble  fellow,"  added 
the  good  man,  rubbing  his  hands;  "you  must  make  his 
acquaintance,  surely." 

So  he  had  ignored  me  to  one  who,  it  seemed,  was  his  near- 
est friend.  Well,  I  can  be  as  proud  as  Harold  T ,  any 

day ;  so  I  chatted  with  the  doctor  and  H ,  who  came  and 

took  the  seat  on  the  other  side  of  me,  and  allowed  him  to 
wind  the  crochet  purse  I  was  netting  over  his  delicate  fingers 
(I  do  wonder  why  he  cannot  let  my  work  alone),  and  tease  to 

know  if  it  was  not  designed  for  him,  unchecked.  Once  T 

looked  over  that  way  with  a  glance  that  an  hour  before  I 
would  not  have  met  for  worlds  —  even  now,  it  disturbed  me 

for  a  moment ;  but  I  thought,  what  right  has  Harold  T 

to  stir  my  blood  thus  ?  Have  I  thought  of  him  as  "  my 
master"  until  the  sportive  title  has  become  real,  and  I  am  a 
slave  to  cower  thus  before  his  glance  ?  So  I  glanced  back 
like  a  northern  iceberg;  but,  only  a  few  moments  after,  I 
found  myself  yielding  to  the  old  fascination  of  his  tones,  as 
he  discussed  Whipple's  lecture  of  the  evening  before,  and,  in 

reply  to  some  remark  of  H ,  analyzed  the  lecture  and 

the  lecturer  in  his  calm,  clear  way,  meting  out  praise  and 
censure  like  a  god.  How  those  tones  recalled  the  past ! 
My  heart  made  pictures :  there  was  the  small  parlor  look- 
ing out  upon  the  sea  —  mother  on  the  lounge  with  her  book 
and  knitting  —  the  two  figures  by  the  table,  one  occasionally 
looking  up  from  her  drawing  to  answer  some  remark  with 
which  the  other  had  interrupted  his  reading ;  and  then  thai 


HZ          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

voice  swept  on  again,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  restless 
waters.  Did  he  not  remember  it,  too  ? 

I  was  roused  from  my  reverie  by  aunt's  voice : 

"  Gr ;  why,  that  is  where  you  and  your  mother  lived 

awhile,  Elizabeth.  You  must  have  been  there  about  the  same 
time  with  Mr.  T ! " 

I  looked  T coolly  in  the  face  a  second,  before  I  replied, 

"  Yes,  aunt." 

Before  she  could  question  or  comment,  T said,  with 

half  a  smile,  "  Miss  Lytton  is  no  stranger  to  me ;  I  have  had 
the  honor  of  meeting  her  before." 

"  The  deuce  you  have ! "  began  the  old  doctor ;  but,  having 
a  sort  of  instinctive  perception,  I  presume,  that  there  was 
something  beside  Lydia  Mason  in  the  way  here,  he  very  wise- 
ly paused,  and  set  to  teasing  H about  his  boot.  Aunt, 

unfortunately,  had  not  his  foresight.  She  kept  on :  "  In- 
deed, and  Elizabeth  is  so  much  changed  you  hardly  knew  her. 
Don't  you  think  the  change  for  the  better  ?  We  flatter  our- 
selves it  is."  T bowed,  and  I  prayed  that  aunt  might 

be  attacked  with  bronchitis  —  anything  to  stop  her  mouth ;  but 
she  kept  on.  "  We  think  a  year  or  so  with  us  will  quite 
overcome  her  country  manners  —  give  her  quite  a  refined  and 
elegant  air." 

"  Pshaw,  Mrs.  Sewal ! "  fell  in  the  doctor ;  "  we  don't  want 
any  air  but  a  natural  one,  and  the  girl  has  that  now.  Don't 
get  any  such  nonsense  into  your  head,  child." 

H and  T both  laughed,  and  I  was  glad  when 

they  left,  after  aunt  had  politely  invited  T to  "  call 

again." 

Nov.  \lth.  —  I  ought  to  feel  flattered,  I  suppose ;  for  aunt, 
if  I  do  not  greatly  mistake  her,  actually  thinks  I  may  do  for  a 

wife  for  her  idol,  H .  Whether  H has  had  any  hand 

in  bringing  her  to  take  this  view  of  the  matter,  I  cannot  say ; 
I  have  no  disposition  to  inquire.  0,  these  match-makers ! 

Nov.  24th.  —  A  whole  week  of  rainy,  dirty,  foggy  weather ! 


THE  DIABY.  23 

I  don't  believe  any  one  can  have  patience  with  such  weather ; 
not  even  the  "  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain,"  especially  if  he 
had  been  shut  up  in  the  house  with  Aunt  Sewal  all  day,  ay, 
and  all  night,  too,  for  uncle  is  absent,  and  she  has  insisted  on 
my  occupying  a  cot-bed  in  her  room,  as  a  sort  of  guard  —  I, 
who  sleep  like  a  stone !  But  I  was  obliged  to  yield,  under 
fear  of  seeming  disobliging ;  and  so  have  been  lulled  to  sleep, 

every  night,  by  a  kind  of  doxology  on  H 's  perfections. 

I  am  cross  and  out  of  patience,  and  would  welcome  even  a 
slight  shock  of  earthquake,  if  it  would  shake  up  aunt's  ideas, 

and  give  them  a  new  direction.     I  like  H ;  I  liked  the 

way  in  which  he  defended  poor  Fanny  R the  other  day, 

who,  to  say  the  least,  has  been  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  He  took  me  by  surprise.  I  find,  under  the  crust 
of  fashion  and  conventionality,  a  good  substratum  of  common 
sense ;  and  I  would  draw  it  out,  and  make  the  most  of  it,  if 
it  were  not  for  this  ridiculous  plot  of  aunt's,  and  a  kind  of 
fancy  I  have,  that  the  gentleman  does,  at  times,  think  him- 
self irresistible.  I  wonder  what  makes  most  men  fancy  that 
every  unmarried  woman  is  ready  to  fall  into  their  arms,  just 
like  a  fly  into  a  cup  of  sweetened  water  ?  Is  it  because  they 
are  so  much  like  sweetened  water  ?  Why  cannot  they  have 
sense  enough  to  see  that  a  woman  may  really  like  their  socie- 
ty, and  feel  a  sincere  regard  for  them,  without  "  being  in  love 
with  them,"  as  the  phrase  runs?  And  why  cannot  the  world, 
so  owlish-eyed  in  most  things,  see  that  such  a  relation  may 
exist  without  any  desire  or  intention,  on  the  part  of  either  of 
the  parties,  to  endow,  or  be  endowed,  "  with  all  their  worldly 
goods  "  ?  It  would  be  such  a  gain  to  be  able  to  say  to  a 
person,  "  I  like  you,"  without  being  misunderstood !  It 's  a 
miserable,  good-for-nothing  world,  any  way. 

Ah !  here  comes  Mary.  That  girl's  face  is  a  perfect  maga- 
zine of  sunbeams.  And  yet  they  say  that  the  death  of  her 
father  and  brother  have  within  two  years  reduced  her  from 
decent  competence  to  the  position  of  servant.  As  she  comes 


24  LEAVES  FROM   THE  TREE   IGDRAfiYL. 

singing  up  the  stairs,  she  calls,  "  See,  Miss  Elizabeth  !  It  'a 
clearing  up ! " 

"  How  can  you  bear  to  sing  in  such  weary,  rainy  weather, 
Mary?" 

"  O,  I  don't  know ;  I  sing  without  thinking ;  I  suppose  it 's 
a  habit  I  've  got.  I  was  thinking  how  nice  this  rain  was  for 
people  who  needed  water !  You  know  it  has  been  so  dry  all 
the  fall,  Miss,  that  the  cisterns  and  wells  are  very  low.  Be- 
sides, if  one  is  contented,  it  does  n't  much  matter  about  the 
weather ; — at  least,  mother  says  so,"  she  added,  in  a  hesitating 
way. 

Contented  —  satisfied  with  one's  self?  Ay,  that  is  it 
Have  n't  I  been  all  the  week  restless,  dissatisfied,  and  uneasy, 
laying  all  my  misery  to  the  weather?  And  why?  It  is 
time  to  face  this  question  boldly.  Because  I  dare  not  look 

into  my  heart,  fearing  to  find  there  a  love  for  Harold  T , 

which  is  neither  sister's  nor  friend's ;  that  I  have  disgraced 
my  womanhood  by  loving  unsought,  unasked  ?  No ;  that  is 
the  world's  utterance,  the  world's  law,  not  mine.  I  am  truer, 
better,  for  that  love ;  the  shame  —  no,  pain  —  lies  here,  that 
he  may,  has  suspected  it,  and  will  teach  me  its  futility.  'T  is 
well ;  he  shall  find  me  not  weak,  nor  backward  in  seconding 
his  aim.  I  will  meet  this  truth  like  a  woman  who  is  bent 
upon  doing  her  best  under  all  life's  trials !  And  yet,  what 
can  I  put  in  its  place  ?  The  love  of  God 2  Alas,  the  heart 
is  humanly  weak ! 

"  See,  Miss  Elizabeth !  a  light  streak  in  the  west.  We 
shall  have  fair  weather  to-morrow !  "  cries  Mary,  from  a  dis- 
tant chamber. 

"Yes,  I  see!"  Thank  God  that  there  are,  also,  light 
streaks  in  the  darkest  hours  of  destiny,  if  we  have  but  faith 
and  patience  to  watch  and  wait.  It  will  dawn  for  me,  yet ! 

Evening.  —  Uncle  has  returned  from  New  York,  bringing 
dress-patterns  for  aunt  and  me.  Mine  is  a  very  nice  Turc 
m satin  —  aunt's  a  splendid  watered  silk.  "It  is  proper  that 


THE   DIARY.  25 

my  niece  should  be  well  dressed ;  I  like  to  see  her  so, "  wag 
uncle's  reply  to  my  thanks.  I  wish  he  had  not  said  just  that ; 
but,  then,  I  am  very  grateful.  I  need  the  dress  very  much; 
all  the  more  because  Miss  Emilia  Cranston,  aunt's  niece,  is 
coming  up  to  spend  the  holydays  here,  and  my  old  black  silk 
would  look  quite  shabby,  I  fear.  Mother  thought  I  could 
afford  to  have  a  new  one,  before  I  left  home,  especially  if  she 
gave  up  buying  an  alpacca ;  but  I  convinced  her  that  the 
alpacca  must  be  had.  I  confess  I  am  not  philosophical 
enough  to  get  quite  above  this  matter  of  dress.  I  think  there 
is  more  in  the  mind's  craving  for  perfect  harmony  and  fitness 
in  outward  things,  than  many  of  our  sages  admit.  The  dress 
of  every  woman  should  be  evolved  from  her  own  mind — an  in- 
dication of  the  grace,  truth,  purity,  and  beauty  within.  Haw- 
thorne understands  this ;  —  the  dark  robe  of  Hester  Prynne, 
the  gay  scarlet  of  "  little  Pearl,"  the  rusty  silk  of  Miss 
Hepzibah,  and  the  variegated  dressing-gown  of  poor  Clifford, 
are  redolent  of  character.  Only  as- the  "  outward  and  visible 
sign  "  of  the  inward  harmony  should  dress  be  made  a  study ; 
never  for  vulgar  display.  I  am  glad  Miss  Cranston  is  coming. 
They  say  she  is  a  belle  and  a  beauty ;  but,  as  I  shall  interfere 
with  her  in  neither  of  these  matters,  I  fancy  we  shall  be  ex- 
cellent friends. 

Nov.  25th.  —  Helping  aunt  and  Sophia  in  the  kitchen  this 
morning,  and  have  won  their  admiration,  for  all  time,  by  my 
skill  in  making  sponge  cake  and  iceing.  I  have  risen  as 
much  as  two  degrees  in  aunt's  estimation ;  and  rejoicing  in 
this  and  the  clear  sunlight,  happy  in  the  thought  of  my  new 
dress,  Miss  Cranston's  expected  arrival,  and  various  other 
things  (how  little  it  takes  to  make  one  happy  sometimes!), 

I  was  really  delighted  to  see  H when  he  called ;  all  the 

more  so  (alas,  poor  human  nature  !)  because  I  saw  the  horses 
as  he  passed  the  window,  and  knew  he  had  come  to  escort 
me  on  a  horseback  ride. 

0,  what  a  glorious  ride  that  was !  How  fresh  and  invig- 
3 


26          LEAVES  FROM  TILE  TREK  1GDRASTL. 

orating  the  rush  of  keen  winter  air,  as  we  dashed  down  the 
W  road  —  the  ice-bound  river  sparkling  in  the  sun- 

light, and  the  bare  brown  hills  leaning  back  lovingly  against 
the  sky!  How  I  longed  to  turn  my  horse's  head  towards 
these  hills  !  I  knew  that  among  them  there  must  be  sunny 
valleys,  like  the  one  in  which  I  had  taken  my  first  lesson  on 
horseback,  and  I  seemed  to  descry  the  very  mountain  paths 

up  which  Annie  B and  I  had  urged  our  horses,  on  our 

whortleberrying  expeditions  to  the  hills.   Poor  Annie  B ! 

—  no,  happy  Annie ! — her  feet  have  long  since  trod  the  dark 
valley,  and  the  opposite  slopes  have  been  smoothed  for  her 
by  angel  hands.  *'-,.  C; 

Perhaps  H ,  too,  had  his  memories ;  for  he  said,  after 

a  long  silence,  as  we  sat  watching  the  scene : 

"  I  like  to  go  out  on  a  winter's  day  like  this,  the  air  is  so 
still,  clear  and  cold.  It  seems  to  take  from  life  all  that  is 
merely  accidental  and  factitious,  and  show  it  to  us  in  its 
original  dignity  and  purity.  I  feel  belittled  when  obliged  to 
go  back  to  the  daily  routine  of  petty  cares.  Have  you  never 
felt  this,  Miss  Lytton  ?  " 

"  Often,  very  often,"  I  said,  in  pleased  surprise.  "  But, 
my  friend,  do  we  take  the  lesson  aright,  if  we  fail  to  gain 
from  it  wisdom  and  strength  to  dignify  these  same  petty 
details?" 

"You  are  right  —  you  are  always  right,  Miss  Lytton!" 
he  said,  thoughtfully.  And  so  we  chatted  on,  of  life  and 
life's  duties,  until  we  reached  home.  Was  there,  or  was 
there  not,  a  closer  pressure  of  my  hand  than^  needful,  when 
he  helped  me  from  the  horse  ?  Henceforth,  I  think  I  shall 
be  countrified,  and  spring  off  unassisted. 

Nov.  2Qtk.  —  All  the  talk  is  of  T 's  splendid  plea. 

His  talent,  his  eloquence,  meet  me  on  every  side  —  prophecies 
of  his  future  success;  and  I  rejoice — miserable  confession 

—  when  I  can  spare  time  from  pitying  myself. 

Little  "Bubby  Lee"  ia  ill  —  nigh  unto  death,  they  say. 


THE    DIARY  27 

Mary  has  gone  home  to  assist  in  taking  care  of  him.  I  must 
go  and  see  him  to-morrow. 

Nov.  27th.  —  At  widow  Lee's. 

They  sleep  at  last,  these  poor,  grief-stricken  women,  and  I 
am  left  alone  with  the  child.  As  he  turns  his  swollen,  pur- 
ple face  uneasily  on  the  pillow,  and  I  think  how  soon  it  may 
lie  quite  still  beneath  the  winter  snow,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears 
and  my  heart  aches ;  but  not  for  the  little  one  whose  feet 
have  wandered  but  such  a  little  way  from  the  gate  of  heaven, 
but  for  the  mother  and  grandmother,  along  whose  dreary 
path  he  seems  the  only  visible  sunbeam.  His  disease  is  scar- 
let fever,  and  my  imprudence,  as  my  friends  term  it,  in 

coming  into  it,  will  keep  me  here  or  at  Dr.  Gr 's  until  all 

danger  of  the  infection  is  over.  Uncle  and  aunt  are  in  a 

great  worry  about  it ;  but  Dr.  Gr promises  to  take  care  of 

me  in  case  I  do  take  it.  He  says  he  and  his  wife  fear  catch- 
ing nothing  of  me  but  my  "  wilfulness."  I  intend  to  give 
him  a  taste  of  it,  for  I  shall  not  leave  these  poor  people  un- 
til some  one  wiser  than  I  comes  to  take  my  place ;  and  that 
will  not  be  immediately,  I  fancy,  for  the  neighbors  have  all 
little  children,  whom  they  dare  not  expose  to  the  infection. 
I  have  no  fear  —  and  these  poor  women  cling  to  me  and  look 
up  to  me  as  if  I  were  Minerva  herself. 

It  is  good  to  have  one's  energies  taxed  thus,  and  I  thank 
Heaven  for  this  experience,  and  every  other  that  has  taught 
me  wisdom,  or  made  me  stronger  for  the  battle  of  life.  Mary 
and  I  do  everything,  from  the  dropping  of  the  medicine  on 
whose  action  hangs  the  life  of  the  child,  to  the  making  of 
the  mustard  paste  drafts  for  the  feet.  There  is  no  abundance 
here,  for  the  days  when  the  widow's  cruse  was  filled  miracu- 
lously have  gone  by  ;  but  never  did  I  feel  so  thankful  for  the 
early  schooling  that  taught  me  how  to  "  make  the  most  of 
little"  as  now. 

Nov.  2Sth.  —  I  sat  by  the  fire  this  morning  toasting  a 
piece  of  bread,  and  my  faco  shining  a  la  Captain  Cuttle 


28  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

when  I  heard  ,Dr.  G- calling  me  from  the  little  entry. 

Toasting-fork  in  hand,  I  hurried  out,  and  found  my  hands, 
bread,  fork  and  all,  clasped  in  those  of  H ,  who,  oblivi- 
ous of  his  fawn-colored  gloves,  poured  forth  inquiries  after 
my  health. 

"  There,  now  you  have  seen  her  alive  and  well,  with  your 
own  eyes,"  interrupted  the  doctor,  as  I  was  assuring  him  of 
my  well-being,  "  I  hope  you  are  satisfied.  I  could  n't  get 
rid  of  the  fellow,  Bessie,"  he  went  on,  "  though  I  assured 
him  you  were  never  so  well  nor  so  handsome  in  your  life ; 
though  you  have  got  a  '  beauty  spot '  on  your  cheek  —  it 
answers  for  a  patch,  dear,"  he  went  on,  grimacing,  as  I 
raised  my  apron  to  efface  the  grim  mark  of  the  bread  or 
something  else.  "  He  doubted  my  honor  as  a  Christian  man, 
the  jackanapes,  and  insisted  on  seeing  you  with  his  own  eyes. 
Hang  him  !  he  might  teach  perseverance  to  the  saints." 

"  And  in  return  for  this  interest  I  must  turn  him  out  the 
door.  Indeed,"  I  said,  as  I  put  out  my  hand  to  prevent  his 
further  entrance,  "you  must  not  come  in.  You  can  do  no 
good,  and  you  may  do  harm  to  yourself  and  others." 

"  And  yet  you  stay  here,  Miss  Lytton,  and  peril  your  own 
life,  so  dear  to  all  your  friends !  "  he  said  reproachfully.  "  Is 
there  nothing  I  can  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  can  play  the  widow's  good  angel,  and  replenish 
our  coal-bin ;  for  I  confess  I  don't  understand  the  art  of 
saving  coal  hi  such  weather." 

"  But  is  there  nothing  else  —  nothing  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  can  go  away  now,  and  tell  uncle  and  aunt  that 
I  am  well,  and  thank  them  for  permitting  me  to  stay  here." 

"  I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Emilia  Cranston  arrived 
yesterday,"  .-he  said. 

"  Then  you  can  take  my  place,  and  play  the  agreeable  to 
her,"  I  said,  laughing,  as  I  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 

"  Coolly  done,  thay  said  the  doctor.     "  Take  a  little  of 


THE    DIARY.  29 

the  starch  out  of  that  fellow,  so  that  common  sense  wil  have 
full  play,  and  he  '11  do  —he '11  do." 

Evening.  —  It  has  been  a  terrible  day  —  the  little  boy 
wrestling  with  death,  and  the  mother  in  hysterical  swoons. 
0,  it  is  dreadful  to  see  the  sweet,  innocent  face  of  a  child 
thus  distorted  with  agony  !  My  God,  why  need  it  be  ?  Mary 
and  her  mother  have  watched  over  Mrs.  Lee,  and  I  have 
hung  over  the  child  until  I  can  scarcely  breathe.  I  don't 
know  what  ails  me ;  the  top  of  my  head  seems  hot  and  heavy 
as  burning  lead. 

Later.  —  Doctor  has  come,  bringing  with  him  a  hard- 
featured,  bony  woman,  whom  he  calls  Mrs.  Lane.  She  threw 
off  her  things,  and  came  up  and  shook  my  hand  as  if  it  had 
been  a  mat  or  piece  of  rug,  saying,  half  way  between  a  laugh 
and  a  cry : 

"  So,  you  've  been  here  all  alone,  and  are  clean  fagged  out, 
as  such  a  young  crittur  has  a  right  to  be ;  for  I  know  them 
there "  —  with  a  nod  towards  the  bedroom  door,  where  the 
poor  mother  lay — "kind  critturs  as  ever  breathed  the 
breath  o'  life  —  do  anything  for  other  folks,  but  not  worth  a 
snajyvhen  trouble  teches  them.  I  've  thought  on  ye  all,  but 
Jim  was  laid  up  with  rheumatiz,  so  as  he  couldn't  stir  hand 
nor  foot.  But  Jim  's  as  kind  a  crittur,  I  must  say,  as  ever 
breathed ;  and  when  he  heard  how  bad  on 't  you  was  down 
here,  and  the  neighbors  all  skeered  to  death,  he  telled  me  to 
send  the  boy  over  to  Aunt  Sally's,  and  come  over ;  and  so  I 
did." 

And  she  dropped  my  hand,  and  went  round  the  room,  put- 
ting things  in  their  places.  Talk  of  elastic  steps  and  fairy 
feet,  girls  !  When  the  spontaneous  goodness  of  our  hearts 
leads  us  to  step  as  lightly  in  a  sick-room  as  did  this  poor 
woman,  we  shall  have  some  reason  to  be  proud ! 

NLidnight.  —  Mrs.  Lane  and  the  doctor  watch  the  child, 
while,  too  anxious  to  sleep,  I  sit  and  watch  them.  Again 
and  again  the  doctor  examines  the  face  of  the  child,  while 


30  LEAVES   FROM    TILE    TREE    IGDRASYL. 

his  fingers  never  leave  the  thin  wrist.  At  last  a  light  breaks 
over  his  face,  and  he  whispers : 

u  He  will  live,  Bessie !     The  boy  will  live  !  " 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  was  making  for  the  bedroom, 
when  he  caught  my  hand. 

"  You  foolish  woman !  Will  you  bring  that  doting  grand- 
mother and  half-crazy  mother  upon  us,  to  undo  what  little 
good  we  have  done  ?  Wait  an  hour  or  so." 

So  I  sat  down  again,  and  began  watching  the  play  of  his 
features,  and  thinking  I  wished  I  could  sketch  them,  just  as 
he  sat.  I  would  rather  have  his  portrait  than  Kossuth's. 

"Doctor." 

"  Hush,  you  witch  !  Cannot  you  write  what  you  have  got 
to  say,  without  yelling  like  a  screechowl  ?  " 

So  I  took  a  slip  of  paper,  and  wrote : 

"  Sit  a  little  to  the  right,  if  you  please,  doctor." 

"  What  for  ? "  in  a  whisper,  hoarse  as  the  voice  of  a 
young  Shanghai. 

"  I  want  to  sketch  your  portrait." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ? "  Then,  with  a  horrible 
grimace,  "  Will  that  expression  do  ?  " 

"  Put  it  in  my  cabinet  of  curiosities." 

"  You  can't  have  it.  Do  you  not  know  it  is  written,  '  Ye 
shall  not  make  unto  yourselves  idols  ? ' ' 

"  Ay,  but  they  must  be  in  the  likeness  of  something  in 
heaven  above  or  the  earth  beneath,  you  know.  It  is  enough 
for  a  reasonable  man  that  I  want  it." 

He  looked  at  me  closely  a  rnoiuent,  before  he  replied,  — 

"Lydia  Mason  shall  see  about  that;  but  to  prove  that  I 
am  reasonable,  I  shall  take  you  home  with  me  to-night.  So 
get  your  bonnet  and  cloak." 

"  I  shall  not  go.  Leave  my  charge  because  you  say  he  is 
better ! " 

"  You  will !  " 

"  I  shan't !  " 


THE    DIARY.  31 

Dec.  20^.  —  At  Dr.  G 's. 

I  did  go  ;  but  how,  or  when,  I  have  no  distinct  recollection. 
For  many  days  there  has  been  no  morning  nor  evening  for 
me ;  only  fever,  and  pain,  and  delirium ;  the  darkness  that 
steals  up  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  O,  it  ia 
good  to  suffer ;  for,  without  this,  we  should  never  know  half 
the  kindness  and  love  that  lies  deep  hidden  in  some  hearts  ' 
The  rock  must  be  smitten  before  the  refreshing  waters  will 
burst  forth. 

What  but  this  could  have  made  uncle  and  aunt  watchers 

by  my  bedside ;  and  the  Lees,  and  Mrs.  Lane,  and  H 

too, — all  so  anxious  to  do  something  for  me;  and,  best  of 

all,  glorious  Doctor  G and  his  noble  wife  ?  Surely  they 

will  have  their  reward ;  "  for  I  was  a  stranger  and  they  took 
me  in ! " 

Here  comes  the  doctor,  holding  up  a  letter ;  he  frowns  hor- 
ribly at  the  sight  of  my  occupation.  Well,  well,  I  promise  — 
not  another  word  to-day ;  and  so  I  get  my  letter. 

Dec.  'Z\st.  —  Mother's  letter  is  unique.  The  dear  woman 
has  all  unconsciously  achieved  the  desideratum  in  letter- writ- 
ing ;  for  it  places  the  home  and  neighborhood  interests,  cares 
and  joys,  as  plainly  before  me  as  if  I  were  in  the  midst  of 
them  myself.  Yet  how  strange  such  passages  as  these  would 

sound  in  the  ears  of  many  of  my  city  friends,  —  H ,  for 

instance,  who  is  enthusiastic  over  the  beauty  of  rural  life  : 

"  Potatoes  are  going  down,  and  last  week  George  F 

carted  all  we  have  to  spare  to  G ,  at  fifty  cents  per 

bushel.  It  makes  quite  a  difference  in  the  profits,  as  we  reck- 
oned them ;  but  I  hope  to  make  it  up  on  the  hay.  That  is 

rising,  and  Mr.  F advises  me  to  keep  it  a  while  longer, 

thinking  it  will  get  up  to  twenty  dollars  per  ton  before  spring. 
It  has  been  so  warm  that  we  have  not  butchered  the  pigs 

yet ;  but  Mr.  F killed  last  week,  and  his  largest  weighed 

four  hundred  and  fifty  Ibs.  Black  Ann  is  to  help  me  about 
the  work ;  so  you  need  not  worry  about  me." 


32  LEAVES  FROM  TUl:  TREE  IGDKA3YL. 

Yet,  to  me,  that  fall  in  the  price  of  potatoes  is  a  serious 
matter ;  for,  if  we  caunot  make  up  the  difference  somehow,  we 
may  find  ourselves  homeless;  for  our  hard  creditor,  Mr. 

J ,  gives  us  no  choice  —  the  interest  of  the  mortgage,  or 

the  house  and  few  remaining  acres  themselves. 

Here  is  a  postscript : 

"  Be  very  careful  to  please  your  uncle  and  aunt,  my  child. 
It  is  very  kind  in  him  to  notice  us,  and  his  favor  can  be  of 
great  advantage  to  you  in  many  ways." 

Ah !  there  spoke  — not  my  mother,  but  the  worldly  wisdom 
which  such  natures  as  hers  gain  from  circumstances. 

O,  the  heaviest  curse  of  poverty  is  not  that  we  must  earn 
our  bread  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  but  the  constant  canker- 
ing care  it  brings,  eating  into  the  finest  natures  like  rust ! 
Men  praise  it  as  a  teacher  of  great  truths,  and  so  it  is ;  but, 
if  it  sometimes  develops  the  intellect,  it  not  unfrequently 
dwarfs  the  heart.  To  be  free  from  these  petty  cares  —  to  be 
able  to  free  others  —  to  lift  the  leaden  weights  from  the  spirit, 
and  give  it  a  free  development  —  this  is  why  I  would  be 
rich. 

As  to  uncle's  kindness  in  noticing  us,  methinks  it  would 
have  been  more  apparent,  and  to  the  purpose,  had  he  done  it 
when  you,  my  mother,  were  struggling  to  give  an  education  to 
your  fatherless  child  !  Now,  when  we  have  won  for  ourselves 
friends  among  the  good  and  learned,  I  fancy  it  is  no  conde- 
scension in  him  to  acknowledge  "  my  niece." 

Dec.  22d.  —  H and  Miss  Cranston  called  to  see  me 

to-day.  She  is  beautiful,  and  was  kind  enough  to  express  an 
earnest  wish  to  have  me  return  to  uncle's.  H is  cer- 
tainly losing  his  tact,  or  he  would  never  have  forgotten  him- 
self so  far  as  to  have  said  it  was  "  dull  and  stupid  "  at  uncle's 
without  me,  and  that  lady  by  his  side!  I  thought  Miss 
Cranston,  in  spite  of  her  retenue,  looked  rather  annoyed.  I 
never  knew  him  guilty  of  such  a  betise  before. 

Dec.  23d.  —  I  am  to  go  home  after  dinner,  Christmas-day. 


THE   DIARY.  33 

Aunt  has  been  here,  and  doctor  and  she  have  finally  settled 
it  thus.  She  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  talked  of  the  par- 
ties which  were  to  be  given  during  the  holidays,  and  which 
Emilia  and  I  would  be  expected  to  attend  —  "such  a  good 
opportunity  for  me  to  see  something  of  city  life." 

The  doctor  said  nothing,  but  sat  and,  drew  coffins  on  the 
margin  of  the  newspaper  before  him,  as  a  sort  of  warning 
to  me,  I  suppose,  of  the  end  to  which  these  parties  would 
lead ;  and  somehow  I  grew  sad  and  dismal,  and  was  glad  when 
aunt  left. 

Doctor  and  his  wife  are  plotting  some  conspiracy,  I  be- 
lieve ;  for  even  now  they  are  whispering  outside  the  door. 
When  he  comes  in  again,  I  will  make  him  think  his  hoarse 
whispers  have  betrayed  his  secret. 

Dec.  2-itk.  —  He  came  in,  the  good  doctor,  with  a  face  so 
sad  that  I  almost  repented  of  my  plotted  mischief.  He 
"  pished  "  and  "  pshawed  "  at  the  "  Era,"  which  he  took  from 
the  table,  and  seemed  in  anything  but  a  peaceable,  Christian 
.temper.  At  last  I  said  : 

"  You  need  n't  look  so  solemn,  doctor,  I  know  all  about 
it." 

"  The  deuce  you  do !  "  his  face  evidently  brightening. 
"  Who  could  have  told  you? " 

"  0,  it 's  an  age  of  wonders ;  perhaps  the  rapping  spirits. 
Of  course  I  should  not  be  left  long  in  ignorance  of  what  so 
nearly  concerns  ^ne." 

"  True,"  and  he  seated  himself  by  my  side,  and  looked  at 
me  long  and  earnestly,  before  he  added,  "  Then  you  don't 
care  for  this,  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  very  much.  But  I  might  care  a  little  more 
intelligently,  if  I  only  knew  precisely  what  the  great  '  this ' 
is." 

"  Why,  you  said  you  did  know  !  " 

"  So  I  do,  that  you  and  Mrs.  G are  plotting  some 

Christmas  surprise  for  me.  I  heard  you  in  the  hall,  -  some- 


34          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IUDRA3YI.. 

thing  to  add  to  earth's  sunlight,  or  it  would  not  be  you,  kind 
friend ;  "  and  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  thought  of  all  I 
owed  them. 

"  Sunlight !  I  wish  it  was !  Such  a  miserable  earth  as 
this  is !  filled  with  all  manuer  of  rascalities.  I  have  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  it  until  I  am  tired,  and  the  sooner  it  is 
burned  up  the  better ! '-'  And  he  got  up  and  gave  the  fore- 
sfick  a  kick  (he  insists  on  my  sitting  by  a  wood  fire)  that  sent 
a  shower  of  sparks  up  the  chimney,  as  a  preliminary,  I  sup- 
pose, to  the  grand  conflagration  he  deemed  so  desirable. 

Seeing  he  was  seriously  disturbed  about  something,  I 
repressed  the  jest  that  rose  to  my  lips,  and  waited  his  next 
words  in  silence. 

"  I  feel  just  as  if  I  could  fight,  Bessie,"  he  said  at  length, 
settling  himself  in  the  chair  by  my  side.  "  I  am  angry  at 
myself  and  everybody  else,  yourself  included,  for  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you,  and  you  don't  help  me  a  bit." 

"  To  me !  "  I  said,  rather  startled.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  what  you  will  deem  an  impertinent  question  ;  but, 
tell  me,  child,"  —  he  went  on  very  seriously,  taking  my  hands 

in  his,  —  "  has  Harold  T ever  been  to  you  aught  but  a 

friend  ?  —  ever  by  word  or  glance  sought  to  win  your  love  ?  " 

"  Doctor  G ,  will  you  tell  me  why  I  am  to  answer  this 

question  —  which  —  which  "  — 

"  Does  not  concern  me,  you  would  say.  Can  you  not  trust 
me  thus  far,  my  child,  without  a  reason  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  said 
by  word  or  glance,"  he  added,  seeing  me  still  hesitate. 

0,  words  of  mocking  raillery,  high  courage,  and  earnest 
interest,  —  glances  whose  mission  begun  when  that  of  words 
ended,  —  how  ye  stood  out  from  the  past !  but  not  one  which 
might  not  have  fallen  from  a  brother's  lip  or  eye !  And  so  I 
told  the  doctor,  and  more,  how  that  I  had  met  him  at  a 
period  when  my  moral  and  intellectual  being  were  struggling 
for  some  wider  development  than  contented  those  around  me ; 
how  he  had  kindly  slackened  his  own  swift  pace  in  the  march 


THE   DIAK.T.  35 

of  progress,  to  aid  my  stumbling  steps;  how  he  had  been 
teacher,  friend,  master,  but  nothing  more ;  and  an  earnest 
"  Thank  God  !  "  was  the  reply. 

"  But  may  I  know,"  I  added,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  what  led  you  to  suppose  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  himself  that  he  had  boarded  with  your 
mother  more  than  a  year,  and,  knowing  you  both,  I  could  not 
well  conceive  how  it  could  be  otherwise :  besides  "  — 

"What,  doctor?" 

"  I  would  not  say  what,  were  it  not  needed  to  explain  my 
impertinence.  You  were  delirious  when  you  were  ill, 
and  "  — 

I  saw  it  all,  and  buried  my  burning  face  in  my  hands, 
while  tears  of  womanly  pride  rushed  to  my  eyes. 

In  a  moment  or  two,  he  gently  raised  my  head  as  he  said, 
"  Forgive  me,  Bessie.  It  was  but  the  raving  of  delirium  —  I 
am  convinced.  I  would  n't  have  distressed  you  so  for  a  less 
reason." 

"  What  is  that  reason  ?  "  I  asked,  looking  him  once  more 
firmly  in  the  face. 

"  Harold  T is  about  to  marry  the  niece  of  Judge 

A ,  the  widow  N .  I  have  it  on  what  I  believe  good 

authority ;  and  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  who  had 
stood  to  me  in  the  stead  of  the  children  God  has  denied  me, 
was  an  unmitigated  scoundrel.  It  is  bad  enough  as  it  is !  " 

I  drew  my  hand  from  his,  that  he  might  not  mark  the 
throbbing  pulse,  and,  after  a  moment's  silence,  asked, 

"This  Mrs.  N ;  what  kind  of  woman  is  she?  One 

worthy  of  Harold  T »  " 

"  Yes,  rich,  and  vain,  and  ambitious  !  "  he  replied,  getting 
up  and  kicking  the  fire,  as  if  he  were  punishing  Harold  by 

proxy.  "  I  wonder  I  could  be  so  angry  when  Mr.  X 

expressed  surprise  that  she  should  stoop  to  him !  " 

"  That  is  no  answer  to  my  question,  doctor.  Is  she 
worthy  of  him  ?  " 


36          LEAVES  FROM  THE  THEE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Bessie,"  he  said,  again  sitting  down,  ';  I  had  got  a  plan 
into  my  head  which  this  news  has  sadly  disturbed,  and,  like 
most  positive  men,  when  they  see  their  schemes  thwarted,  am 
cross  and  ill-tempered.  Perhaps  I  would  play  the  part  of 
Providence  too  much,  and  so  am  reminded  of  my  weakness. 
Is  she  worthy  ?  —  but,  tell  me,  what  should  Harold's  wife  be 
like  ?  " 

"  Like  that,"  I  said,  pointing  to  a  drift  of  unsullied  snow 
without ;  "  pure  in  thought,  word  and  deed ;  yielding  to  him 
like  that  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  but  firm  to  all  the  world 
beside.  She  must  be  all  the  world  to  him,  or  nothing." 

"  And  Harriet  N is  likelier  to  be  something  to  all  the 

world  than  to  her  husband,  unless  her  passion  for  admiration 
be  much  abated,"  he  replied,  dryly.  "  He  must  be  attracted 
by  her  wealth,  and  the  connection  the  match  will  afford  him. 
Her  uncle  has  offered  him  a  partnership  in  his  office,  I  hear. 
I  will  never  attempt  to  judge  character  again,  so  honest,  so 
self-reliant,  he  seemed.  He  came  here  to  inquire  after  you 
twice  before  he  left  the  city,  asd,  whe"n  he  turned  away 
his  face,  as  I  spoke  of  your  danger,  I  thought  —  but 't  was 
all  a  sham.  0,  he  has  grown  scheming  betimes !  He  will 
be  a  judge,  yet !  " 

Why  should  he  ask  after  me  at  all  ?  What  was  I  to  him, 
what  could  I  give  him  ?  —  this  poor,  undeveloped  girl,  who 
had  caught  light  and  life  from  his  teachings. 

And  then  I  thought  of  the  beautiful  and  accomplished 

Mrs.  N ,  of  all  she  could  do  for  him,  the  weary  struggles 

which  her  position  and  wealth  might  save  him  —  those  strug- 
gles which  ever  attend  the  first  years  of  a  poor  professional 
man's  life  —  and  I  spoke  of  this  to  Dr.  Q- . 

"  Better  that  he  face  them  like  a  man,  than  escape  by  a 
mercenary  marriage !  "  thundered  he.  "It  is  just  that  which 
gives  strength  and  stamina  to  the  character  !  Faugh !  I  de- 
spise such  cowardice." 


THE   DIARY.  37 

"  But  the  marriage  may  not  be  mercenary.  He  doubtless 
loves  her,  and  she  cannot  fail  of  loving  Harold  T ." 

"  Others  have,  it  seems,"  he  answered  dryly ;  then  went  on 
alternately  berating  them  both,  until,  for  old  kindness'  sake, 
I  roused  myself  to  interfere. 

"  You  wrong  them,  doctor.  '  You  are  angry,  and  so  wrong 

them  both.  This  Mrs.  N is  not  unworthy  simply  because 

she  is  fashionable.  Besides,  you  say,  she  has  two  children  ; 
and  she  cannot  be  quite  the  frivolous  thing  you  make  her 
out,  with  such  a  bridge  between  hor  and  heaven." 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  then !  "  he  replied,  half  way  between 
a  grin  and  a  smile.  "  £fc  's  enough  to  provoke  a  saint,  to  hear 
you  defend  such  folly !  If  it  were  not  proof  that  you  do  not 
care  for  him,  I  should  be  tempted  to  swear !  "  And  he  flung 
himself  out  of  the  room,  and,  a  moment  after,  I  saw  him  driv- 
ing furiously  down  the  street. 

Christmas  Eve.  —  The  doctor  and  his  wife  are  singing 
Milton's  glorious  hymn  of  the  Nativity  below,  and  there  is  a 
harmony  and  tenderness  in  their  tones,  as  they  reach  me, 
better  than  all  art.  So  have  they  sung  together,  on  every 
Christmas  eve,  for  twenty-five  years.  May  it  be  long  before 
God  calls  them  to  sing  it  on  high ! 

"  Bessie,  come  help  us  ! "  calls  the  doctor. 

No,  friends ;  I  am  passing  through  the  Valley  of  Humilia- 
tion to-night,  and  the  Miserere  Deus  mei  is  a  more  fitting 
strain  for  me,  than  that  song  of  joy.  I  am  struggling  with 
pride  and  weakness  ;  and  when  I  conquer,  as  by  the  help  of 
God  I  surely  shall,  I  may,  perchance,  find  that  herb,  "  heart's- 
ease,"  which  is  said  to  grow  so  plentifully  here,  and  be  able 
to  sing  with  the  shepherd-boy  of  whom  Bunyan  speaks : 

"  He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall; 

He  that  is  low,  no  pride ; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have  God  to  bo  his  guide." 

4 


38  LEAVES  FBOM  THE  TREE  IGDBASTL. 

Christmas  Day.  —  Last  night  life  seemed  so  mean  and 
worthless,  I  was  so  weak  and  selfish,  that  I  could  not  hear 
the  song  of  the  angels  —  could  see  nothing  in  this  great  uni- 
verse, but  my  own  petty  self;  but  this  morning  it  is  better. 
There  is  nothing  like  right,  true,  honest,  friendly  words  and 
glances  to  lay  evil  spirits !  They  are  sometimes  better  than 
prayer  and  fasting.  I  was  convinced  of  this  when  I  met  the 
friendly  greeting  of  the  doctor  and  his  wife  this  morning,  and 
looked  upon  his  radiant  face.  Surely,  I  told  him  laughingly, 
in  Sir  John  Suckling's  words  : 

"  No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 
Was  half  so  fine  a  sight ;" 

but  he  suggested  "  warming-pan  "  as  being,  at  the  same  time, 
more  "  correct  and  professional." 

How  pleasant  was  that  small  breakfast-room,  —  how  deli- 
cious the  coffee  and  the  buckwheat  cakes  ! 

11  Bessie,"  said  good  Mrs.  G ,  after  breakfast,  "  we 

always  let  Sally  go  to  church  on  Christmas  day,  and,  as 
we  shall  have  to  hurry,  we  shall  press  you  into  the  service. 
Will  you  seed  these  raisins  ?  " 

I  don't  know  what  there  was  about  those  raisins,  but  with 
every  seed  I  flung  out  my  heart  grew  lighter,  and  I  had 

struck  up  an  accompaniment  to  Mrs.  G 's  song,  as  she 

tripped  back  and  forth  between  the  breakfast-room  and  the 
kitchen,  when  the  doctor  put  his  head  into  the  door  with,  — 

"  Well,  Lydia,  I  am  going !  " 

"  Where  ? "  she  asked,  scarcely  interrupting  her  song. 

"  First,  to  see  Mi*.  P ,  then  to  poor  Pat  Smiley's." 

"  I  hope  you  '11  find  them  better,  poor  souls  !  Sally,  don't 
let  the  rice  burn  ! "  cried  the  good  woman,  as  she  went  up  to 
her  husband  to  arrange  his  shirt-collar,  which,  whatever  may 
be  the  prevailing  fashion,  always  manifests  something  of  the 
wearer's  individuality,  and  stands  just  as  it  has  a  mind  to. 

"  0,  the  deuce  take  the  collar ! "  he  cried,  seizing  her  hand 


THE    DIARV.  39 

and  drawing  his  head  in  and  out  of  his  furs,  like  a  turtle. 
"  Have  you  nothing  to  think  of  but  rice  and  starch,  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  O,  yes,  a  plenty  of  things ;  puddings,  and  vegetables, 
and  the  cranberry  sauce,  —  I  came  near  forgetting  that,"  she 
said,  laughing  and  attempting  to  get  free. 

But  he  held  her  tight  while  he  said,  looking  down  into  her 
eyes,  gravely : 

"  There  is  another  sauce  for  our  Christmas  dinner,  wife, 
which  I  am  afraid  you  have  forgotten." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  all  the  housekeeper  stirring  in 
her  at  once.  "  I  have  tomato,  quince,"  — 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  interrupting  her,  "  I  see  you  have  not 
got  it,  but  if  you  will  take  that  nice  baked  spare-rib,  on  the 
second  shelf  in  the  pantry  (I  've  been  in  there),  a  few  mince 
pies,  and  anything  else  that  comes  handy,  and  put  them  into 
my  carriage,  I  guess  I  can  find  what  we  want  at  Pat  Smiley's. 
Don't  you  think,  wife,  that  the  knowledge  that  those  hungry- 
eyed,  gaunt  little  ghouls  of  his  (there  are  a  dozen  or  so  of 
them)  are  well  fed  for  once  in  their  lives,  will  give  a  better 
relish  to  our  own  dinner,  than  ketchup  or  cranberry  ?  " 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  a  moment,  before  she  flew  to  do 
as  he  suggested;  and  that  man  must  be  worse  than  a  Hottentot 
who  would  not  prize  such  a  revelation  higher  than  the  ap- 
plause of  the  whole  world. 

Mrs.  G- and  Sally  both  went  to  church,  leaving  me  to 

watch  the  baking  ;  and  between  that  and  writing  a  little  to 
mother  I  spent  the  morning. 

When  I  entered  the  dining-room,  I  found  out  the  meaning 
of  all  the  whispering  and  plotting  yesterday,  for  "Bubby 
Lee,"  looking  almost  as  rosy  and  plump  as  before  his  illness, 
ran  into  my  arms  with  his  "  Merry  Christhmath,  Mith  Itton ;  " 
and  the  two  widows,  mother  and  daughter,  and  Mary,  came 
round  me,  uttering  the  name  kind  wishes  mingled  with  grate- 
ful tears. 


4U  LEAVES   FROM    T1IK    TKEK    1UUKASYL. 

They  had  all  been  invited  to  dinner,  and  the  doctor,  quite 
opportunely  for  my  composure,  ordered  them  all  to  their 
seats  at  the  table,  brandishing  his  carving-knife  threateningly 
at  Mary,  who  insisted  on  waiting  on  the  table  with  Sally. 

"  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear,  good  people,"  he  said,  as  he 
piled  up  their  plates  with  good  things,  "  and  I  heartily  hope 
that  you  will  keep  me  company.  —  No,  no  ketchup ;  I  got 
enough  of  that  sauce  we  spoke  of  this  morning,  to  last  through 
one  dinner.  Wife,  did  you  know  you  had  an  angel  for  your 
husband  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  had  a  warming-pan,  this  morning,"  she  said. 

"  All  right  —  there  is  a  closer  connection  between  warming- 
pans  and  angels  than  some  people  think.  —  Take  some  more 
of  this  dressing,  Mrs.  Lee  ?  " 

"  What  sort  of  an  angel,  doctor?  "  I  asked ;  "  there  are  two 
kinds,  you  know." 

"  One  right  from  heaven,  according  to  Pat  Smiley  and  his 
wife :  and  they,  being  true  believers,  ought  to  know.  So  no 
insinuations,  Miss."  And  he  went  on  to  giv"e  us  such  a  lu- 
dicrous account  of  the  gratitude  of  the  poor  Irish  family, 
mingled  with,  here  and  there,  true  touches  of  pathos  as  he 
described  the  condition  of  the  helpless  father,  as  compelled 
both  our  laughter  and  our  tears. 

The  happy  faces  of  the  Lees  were  good  sauce  for  our  festi- 
val dinner,  and  we  ate  it  with  happy  hearts.  And  when,  on 
rising  from  the  table,  the  doctor  fervently  thanked  God,  not 
merely  for  the  good  things  which  had  been  set  before  us,  but 
that  He  had  put  it  into  our  hearts  to  share  them  with  others, 
I  felt  the  true  meaning  of  the  custom ;  for  the  mean  and 
the  dishonest,  the  wicked  and  hard-hearted,  may  sit  at  loaded 
tables  but  God  alone  can  put  it  into  their  hearts  to  share 
their  goods  with  others. 

Catching  up  the  little  boy  in  his  arms,  he  led  the  way  to 
the  parlor,  which  I  had  found,  to  my  surprise,  close  locked,  in 
the  morning.  He  now  unlocked  the  door,  threw  it  open,  and 


THL    J'lAKY.  41 

there,  iu  the  centre  of  the  room,  stood  a  table  covered  with 
gifts.  No  Christmas  tree  could  have  supported  the  beautiful 
illustrated  copy  of  Shakspeare  that  bore  my  name,  nor  the 
heavy,  warm  material  for  winter  clothing,  which  they  had 
provided  for  their  other  guests. 

"  That  will  keep  you  warm  on  your  way  to  school,  this 
winter,"  said  the  doctor,  flinging  a  nice  "  Bay  State  "  shawl 
over  Mary's  shoulders,  as  his  wife  placed  in  her  hand  a"  certif- 
icate of  her  membership  in  the  "  Webster  High  School,"  for 
the  ensuing  term. 

"  Bessie  was  planning  to  make  a  dress-maker  of  you,  Mary," 
said  the  doctor ;  "  but  my  wife  happened  to  see  the  accounts 
you  keep  for  your  mother,  and  thought  a  clerkship  in  Mr. 

C 's  store  would  be  much  better  for  you,  seeing  that 

fashionable  dress-makers  are,  with  reference  to  their  appren- 
tices, very  much  like  the  horseleeches,  crying,  '  Give  !  give  ! ' 
without  an  adequate  equivalent  in  return.  I  know  something 
about  this,  for  Lydia  Mason  and  I  took  the  trouble  to  inquire. 
And,  Bessie,  next  time  you  feel  inclined  to  advocate  '  women's 
rights,'  please  bear  in  mind  the  fact,  that  we  men  do  give  our 
apprentices  their  board  and  a  fair  knowledge  of  their  business, 
if  nothing  more ;  while  a  girl  is  made  to  board  herself,  and 
kept  sewing  away  at  cross-stitch  and  back-stitch,  and"  the 
Lord  knows  what,  for  a  whole  six  months  or  a  year,  and  at 
the  end  knows  no  more  about  fitting  a  dress  than  I  do.  And 
if  she  were  to  stay  three  years,  it  would  be  just  so,  for  when 
women  do  choose  to  serve  the  devil,  they  do  it  with  a  better 
grace  than  we  men.  Is  it  not  so,  Bessie  ?  " 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  I  knew  more  than  one  young 
girl,  who  had  sewed  six  months  for  her  mistress,  earning  her 
fair  wages,  and  had  returned  home  an  adept  in  making  all 
sorts  of  trimmings,  but  without  ever  having  been  permitted  to 
fit  a  common  muslin  dress. 

People  talk  of  the  eloquence  of  gratitude,  but  when  the 
heart  is  full,  it  is  still.  Our  guests  found  it  so  ;  —  they  had 
4* 


VZ  LKAVES    FROM    XliE   TREE    10DRASYL. 

"  no  words  "  they  said,  and  that  was  enough.  But  as  they  sit 
over  their  humble  fire  to-night,  talking  over  their  dinner,  and 
viewing  again  and  again  their  presents,  I  much  doubt  if  they 
do  not  think,  with  Pat  Smiley's  wife,  that  the  doctor  and  his 
wife  are  good  as  angels,  or  even  better,  —  at  least,  better 
judges  of  flannels,  lambs-wool  stockings  and  shoe-leather.  At 
least,  I  thought  so,  when,  with  loving  words  and  smiles,  and 
some  tears,  they  wrapped  me  up,  buried  me  in  furs  and 

shawls,  and  with  Mrs.  G 's  motherly  kiss  and  blessed 

words  on  my  brow  and  in  my  heart,  the  doctor  placed  me  in 
his  carriage  and  drove  to  my  uncle's. 

My  heart  was  full,  too  full  for  words,  and  the  sight  of  the 
happy  faces  in  the  street,  the  troops  of  rosy  children,  the 
sound  of  the  merry  Christmas  greetings  as  we  drove  along, 
only  deepened  my  sense  of  the  divine  love  which  it  seemed 
must  penetrate  every  heart. 

As  we  drove  up  at  uncle's  door,  H stood  on  the  steps 

to  receive  us ;  but,  as  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
the  doctor  put  him  aside,  with  some  joke  about  being  super- 
seded by  a  younger  man,  and,  taking  me  in  his  arms,  bore  me 
in  and  placed  me  on  the  sofa. 

They  gathered  round  me  with  their  Christmas  greetings, 
and  I,  like  a  simpleton,  burst  into  tears.  Then  there  was 
confusion ;  uncle  crying  out  that  I  was  fainting,  aunt,  Emilia, 
and  H ,  running  all  ways  for  restoratives,  while  the  doc- 
tor quietly  seated  himself  by  my  side,  undid  my  wrappings, 
and  whispered,  "  Is  this  really  the  wisest  thing  you  can  do, 
Bessie  ?  " 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  look ;  and,  taking  -a  glass  of 

water  from  H ,  I  shook  off  my  tippets,  and  begged  uncle's 

pardon  for  being  so  nervous. 

Happily,  uncle  and  aunt  felt  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  bo 

very  thankful  to  Doctor  G .  and  say  a  great  deal  of  their 

obligations. 

"  Obligations !  "  said  the  latter,  laughing ;  "  ask  my  wife 


THE   DIAKY.  43 

about  that.  Why,  't  was  only  yesterday  she  convinced  me 
that  we  could  give  more  in  Christmas  charities  this  year  than 
ever,  because  God  had  blessed  us  with  the  love  of  this  girl 
here.  My  wife  has  a  curious  way  of  seeing  things;  but 
H here  looks  as  if  he  understood  all  about  it." 

If  H did,  uncle  and  aunt  did  not ;  but  uncle  said  he 

was  infinitely  obliged  to  Mrs.  G for  her  good  opinion  of 

his  niece,  and  aunt  always  knew  her  "to  be  a  very  kind- 
hearted  woman ;  "  and  so  the  doctor  took  his  leave. 

-Sophie  came  in  to  welcome  me  back ;  and  certainly  her 
yellow  face  was  not  the  least  pleasant  thing  that  met  my 
sight. 

But  they  were  all  in  excellent  spirits ;  uncle  unbent  him- 
self so  far  as  to  laugh  at  some  of  the  pointed  sallies  flying 

between  H and  Emilia,  and  aunt  seemed  for  once  in  the 

world  quite  forgetful  of  household  cares.  Tired  and  weak,  I 
sat  and  watched  them,  and  thought  how  handsome  they  were, 
—  all  four,  —  and  could  understand  something  how  a  man  of 
uncle's  mental  calibre  must  feel  towards  one  as  plain-looking 

as  "  my  niece."    Emilia  and  H are  both  worthy  of  their 

race.  I  could  not  help  whispering  some  of  these  thoughts  to 
aunt,  who  opened  her  eyes,  and  answered : 

"  Ay,  just  so ;  Emilia,  though,  is  more  of  a  Cranston  than 

an  H .     The  Cranstons  are  a  fine-looking  family.     But 

what  are  you  saying,  child  ?  You  are  not  so  very  plain,  — 
not  ugly,  you  know.  Indeed,  now,  I  think  this  illness  has 
improved  you.  You  have  lost  that  —  well,  that  fulness  of 
the  chest  and  shoulders,  that  country  look,  as  I  call  it.  With 
a  little  attention  to  dress,  your  figure  will  be  quite  slender 
to  what  it  was  before.  By  the  by,  do  you  know  H ad- 
mires your  figure  ?  He  says  it  is  just  the  style  which  one  sees 
in  the  paintings  of  the  fold  masters.  Wre  had  quite  a  discus- 
sion about  it  the  other  day,  and  he  half  convinced  me  that  he 
was  right." 

As  he  always  does,  I  mentally  added,  while  I  prayed  that 


44  LEAVES  FROM  TUK  TREK  IQDRA3YL. 

H might  not  take  it  into  his  head  to  make  me  the  chief 

figure  in  his  domestic  pictures. 

But  this  prayer  was  needless,  my  uncle,  my  mother's  own 
brother,  has  saved  me  any  further  trouble  on  this  score.  My 
face  even  now  burns  with  shame,  when  I  think  of  the  mean, 
parsimonious  character  they  must  think  me ;  and  I  would  fain 
have  had  their  esteem. 

0,  did  they  know  what  it  is  to  be  in  debt !  —  to  be  obliged 
to  calculate  every  little  expense,  or  leave  my  mother  shelter- 
less! Could  I  make  up  my  mind  to  explain  all  this  —  go  into 
the  details ;  but,  no,  I  will  not  do  it ;  I  should  be  but  a 
beggar  in  their  eyes — just  what  I  seem  now.  I  will  go 
home  —  I  will  go  into  my  school  again,  and  He  who  "  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  "  will  care  for  us ! 

But  let  me  lo»k  at  this  thing  as  it  is.  One  day,  before  I 
went  to  Mrs.  Lee's,  at  aunt's  request  I  accompanied  her  to  a 
jeweller's  store.  She  made  some  trifling  purchase,  and  then 
asked  to  look  at  some  sets  of  pearl  ornaments,  arranged  in  a 
new  style,  which  they  had  advertised.  She  asked  my  opinion 
of  them,  and  also  of  some  elegant  silver  card-cases,  and  I  said 
they  were  "  very  beautiful." 

"  Lizzie  Olinstead  has  just  bought  a  set.  Would  not  you 
like  one,  Elizabeth  ?  They  would  be  just  the  thing  for  you," 
she  said. 

The  sight  of  all  these  rich  and  beautiful  things  had  brought 
very  vividly  to  my  mind  the  thought  of  our  poverty,  and  I 
answered  hastily, 

"  No,  aunt ;  I  would  much  rather  have  the  money  they 
would  cost." 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  when,  just  as  I  was  getting  to 
feel  at  home  among  them  to-night,  uncle  placed  before  Miss 
Cranston  a  box  containing  one  of  those  identical  sets  of  pearls, 
and  a  beautifully  chased  card-case,  as  Christmas  gifts  from 
himself  and  aunt;  then,  turning  to  me,  put  into  my  bind  a 
bank-note,  saying,  in  his  coldest,  dryest  tone, 


THE    DIARY.  45 

"  It  was  the  intention  of  your  aunt  and  myself  to  give  you 
a  set  of  ornaments  and  a  case  like  Miss  Cranston's,  Elizabeth ; 
but,  understanding  that  you  value  ready  money  higher  than 
such  tokens  of  affection,  you  have  the  equivalent  there." 

I  did  not  see  H 's  look  of  wonder  or  Miss  Cranston's 

stare.  I  only  felt  them,  while  I  saw  my  father  laboring  with 
his  pen,  with  the  death-mark  on  his  brow,  that  my  mother 
need  not  ask  aid  of  those  who  had  spurned  her  for  his  sake. 
I  heard  only  his  low  whisper,  as  he  drew  my  little  arms 
around  his  neck,  the  morning  he  died,  and,  with  great,  bright 
eyes  looking  into  mine,  whispered  between  his  fits  of  cough- 
ing : 

"  Take  good  care  of  your  mother,  my  little  Bessie ;  she  will 
have  no  one  but  you  now." 

This  memory,  and  the  consciousness  that  I  had  fulfilled  my 
father's  command,  kept  me  on  my  feet  now,  weak  as  I  was, 
though  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  speak,  but  stood  motion- 
less, holding  in  my  outstretched  hand  the  bill  towards 
uncle. 

"  Is  there  any  mistake,  child  ?  That  bill  is  a  good  one," 
he  said,  in  that  same  hard  tone. 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Dropping  the  bill  on  the  table, 
I  burst  into  tears,  and  fled  to  my  room.  What  must  they 
think  of  me  ?  Why  should  I  care  ?  0,  is  this  cold,  proud, 
unsympathizing  man  my  mother's  brother,  and  could  he  find 
it  in  his  heart  to  humiliate  me  thus?  But  he  knew  not 
what  he  did.  Ah,  yes,  father,  he  knew  not  what  he  did,  and 
I'  can  bear  it.  But  I  will  go  home. 

There,  that  is  aunt's  step  coming  on  the  stairs  !  Now  no 
more  tears. 

Dec.  2Qth.  —  It  was  aunt,  and,  to  my  great  surprise,  she 
was  followed  by  uncle,  both  anxious  to  know  if  I  was  ill,  if 
I  felt  any  return  of  my  fever,  that  I  behaved  so  strangely. 

I  felt  more  than  ever,  as  I  listened  to  their  inquiries,  that 
I  could  not  explain,  so  I  merely  said  that  aunt  had  misunder- 


46          LEAVES  FKOM  THE  TRKK  IOUKASYL. 

stood  the  meaning  of  my  remark  in  Mr.  R 's  store ;  that 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and  therefore  was  surprised  at 
being  charged  with  the  meanness  of  hoarding  money  for 
itself. 

Uncle  interrupted  me  by  saying  that  he  was  very  glad  to 
find  he  was  mistaken ;  that  it  seemed  strange  that  one  so 
young  should  be  tainted  by  so  low  a  vice,  especially  a  lady, 
but  from  the  knowledge  he  had  of  my  family  on  my  father's 
side  —  I  rose  to  my  feet  at  once,  and,  with  a  firmness  and  a 
pride  which  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  possessing  before,  in- 
terrupted him : 

"  Allow  me  to  remind  you,  sir,  that,  under  your  own  roof, 
the  name  of  a  guest's  father  should  be  sacred.  That  is  one 
of  the  lessons  my  own  father  taught  me  as  a  child ;  and  you 
wrong  him,  you  wrong  my  mother,  — your  own  sister,  sir,"  — 
I  went  on,  my  woman's  nature  getting  the  better  of  my  calm- 
ness, —  "  when  you  presume  to  hint  that  he  sought  her  from 
mercenary  motives.  0,  you  did  not  know  him,  or  you  would 
never  dream  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

Uncle  gazed  at  me  a  moment  between  surprise  and  indig- 
nation. I  think  the  former  predominated,  for  the  remark 
that  he  made,  as  soon  as  he  gained  -breath,  indicated  that  he 
did  not  dream  that  any  one  in  his  senses  could  talk  thus  to 
a  Sewal.  It  was  this,  and  addressed  to  aunt : 

"  It  must  be  that  Elizabeth  is  light-headed  still.  Had  we 
not  better  send  for  Dr.  G ?  " 

Aunt's  woman's  nature  gave  her  an  inkling  of  the  truth. 
She  said  I  was  weak  and  tired  out,  and  rather  hysterical ; 
that  she  would  sit  with  me  awhile',  while  he  went  down. 
Then  —  Heaven  help  the  well-meaning  but  simple-minded 
soul !  —  she  went  on  trying  to  explain  to  me  the  mistake, 
and,  in  so  doing,  repeated  the  remarks  my  conduct  had  elic- 
ited down  stairs ;  how  grave  H had  looked,  and  how 

Miss  <  .anston  had  said  she  would  not  have  believed  it  pos- 
sible for  any  lady  to  be  so  mean ;  and  when  she  had  tried  to 


THB  DIARY.  47 

explain,  by  telling  something  of  my  circumstances  in  life, 
Emilia  had  not  thought  it  so  strange,  for  she  "  supposed  poor 
people,  who  are  obliged  to  count  every  cent  they  spend,  must 
naturally  think  a  great  deal  of  money." 

0,  what  a  Job's  comforter  was  this  aunt  of  mine,  with  her 
lack  of  tact  and  heart-knowledge !  Sitting  there,  in  her 
rich  silk  dress,  with  her  exquisite  cap  and  faultless  laces,  she 
brought  to  my  thought  another  figure.  Which  looked  best  in 
the  eyes  of  the  angels,  I  cannot  say,  but  I  know  which  most 
comforted  my  sore  and  weary  heart.  It  was  the  figure  of  our 

kind  neighbor,  Mrs.  F ,  coming  across  the  fields,  with  her 

yellow  flannel  blanket  on  her  shoulders,  and  a  spotted  muslin 
cap,  with  wide,  crimped  borders,  shading  her  face,  to  see  if 
mother  was  quite  well  —  if  she  would  need  any  little  thing 
done  for  her,  which  her  boys,  Bill  or  John,  could  do,  while  I 
was  busy  in  my  school  —  always  saying  some  strong,  hopeful, 
cheering  word.  That  yellow  flannel  blanket  covert.*  a  noble 
heart.  Would  that  I  could  rest,  my  head  against  it  this 
moment  and  hear  her  "  Never  mind,  child,  thete  are  briers 
enough  in  one's  path  at  times,  I  know,  but  they  will  all  be 
cleared  away  at  last  !  " 

New-Year's  Day,  1852.  —  All  goes  on  here  the  same  as 
before  that  scene  on  -Christmas  evening,  save  that  uncle's 
manners  have  been  a  little  more  frigid  and  stately  than 
usual.  Miss  Cranston  evidently  considers  me  as  one  whom 
she  can  patronize.  She  has  shown  me  all  her  dresses  and 
jewelry,  and  given  me  a  history  of  all  her  flirtations  and 
friendships ;  in  short,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  be  installed  as 
confidant  to  a  beautiful  belle  —  not  to  say  coquette.  A 
strange  position  for  one  like  me. 

H seems  more  thoughtful,  grave  and  manly,  than  he 

did  before  that  affair.  He  has  never  referred  to  it;  unless  it 
was  by  a  glance  this  morning,  when  he  came  in  to  ask  me  to 
ride  a  short  distance,  and  presented  Miss  Cranston  and  aunt 
each  with  a  beautiful  brooch,  while  he  placed  in  my  hand  a 


48  LEAVES   FROM   THE   TREE   IQDRASYL. 

most  magnificent  bouquet  of  pansies,  saying  something  about 
my  great  love  of  flowers.  I  was  touched  by  this  proof  of  his 
delicacy,  and  was  not  ashamed  to  let  him  see  it.  He  never 
seemed  more  worthy  of  being  beloved  than  at  that  moment. 

There  have  been  several  parties,  the  past  week,  which  I  have 
been  obliged  to  enjoy  second-hand  from  the  piquant  descrip- 
tions of  Miss  Cranston  and  H .  I  have  plead  ill-health 

for  not  attending,  and  the  excuse  has  been  accepted.  Indeed, 
I  am  not  strong,  and  so  to-day  I  am  permitted  to  keep  my 
room,  while  Emilia,  after  the  New  York  custom,  receives 
calls.  She  flits  back  and  forth,  between  the  parlors  and  my 
room,  like  a  beautiful  bird,  to  report  her  calls.  Just  now  she 

came  in  to  tell  me  she  had  received  a  call  from  H , 

and  begged  me  to  guess  who  was  with  him. 

"  How  should  I  know,  dear  ? "  I  said,  smiling  at  hei 
eagerness.  "  Your  impatience  would  never  wait  until  I  had 
done  guessing." 

"  How  stupid !  Why,  it  was  Mr.  T ,  the  young 

lawyer,  whonfthey  are  all  talking  about." 

"  Mr.  T ;  I  thought  he  was  in  New  York." 

"  0,  he 's  on  his  way  to  Boston,  and  so  called  to  see  me. 
O,  I  wish  the  P s  and  V s  knew  it ! " 

"Why?" 

"  0,  because  it  would  vex  them  so.  They  are  dying  to  get 
him  to  visit  at  their  houses." 

"  But  what  is  there  peculiar  about  the  man  ?  " 

"  O,  enough.  He  never  compliments,  or,  at  least,  very 
rarely.  And  then  he  says  such  queer  things,  — just  what  he 
thinks  of  you.  For  instance,  I  was  playing  one  day  when  he 
called  at  our  house,  and,  at  his  request,  kept  on.  I  played 
brilliantly ;  and  when  I  had  finished,  instead  of  professing 
himself '  delighted,'  '  charmed,'  and  all  that,  he  never  said  a 
word,  only  gave  me  a  simple  bow.  Determined  to  make  him 
speak,  I  asked  him,  laughingly,  if  the  piece  was  not  well  ex- 
ecuted ?  What  do  you  think  he  said  ?  Why,  '  No,  not  for 


THE   DIARY.  49 

one  with  my  superior  talent  for  music  ana  opportunities  for 
practice.'  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  odd  ?  And  yet,  for 
the  life  of  me,  I  could  n't  be  angry.  By  the  by,"  she  added, 
putting  her  head  back  through  the  door,  as  she  flitted  out, 
"  he  said  he  had  met  you  here,  and  made  due  inquiries.  I 

referred  him  to  H ,  as  being  the  best  qualified  to  answer, 

having  driven  you  out  this  morning." 

"  They  say  he  i*  to  marry  Mrs.  N ,  of  your  city,"  I 

said. 

"  Not  if  I  can  get  him  myself;  "  and  away  she  flew.  Well, 
well,  what  is  it  to  me  ? 

Jan.  8th.  —  "  But  our  house  is  so  much  warmer  and  more 
comfortable  than  even  the  best  of  country  houses ;  so  much 
better  for  you,  in  your  state  of  health,  that  you  will  not 
think  of  going  home  until  spring,  child ;  certainly  not,  now 
that  your  mother  has  written  advising  you  to  stay." 

Aunt  and  I  were  discussing  a  letter  which  I  received  from 
mother  yesterday,  in  which,  anxious  for  my  health,  she  had 
advised  me  to  remain  in  the  city  until  the  spring ;  and  aunt, 
as  above,  warmly  seconded  her  wish. 

I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  remain  a  while  longer,  at  least, 
or  deeply  oflend  these  good  people  ;  but  "  warmth  and  com- 
fort !  "  —  there  is  more  warmth  and  comfort  in  my  mother's 
eyes  than  in  all  the  anthracite  ever  discovered. 

Jan.  Qtk. —  I  remember  having  seen  somewhere  a  "diary" 
of  Peggy  Dow,  consort  of  the  celebrated  Lorenzo  Dow,  in 
which  divers  events  were  put  down  under  the  head  of  "  Re- 
markable Experiences."  I  think  the  affair  of  this  morning 
must  come  under  that  head.  Some  half  dozen  times  since  I 

came  here  I  have  met  uncle's  partner,  Mr.  A ,  a  tall, 

lean,  bald-headed  man,  with  a  complexion  like  an  old  bank 
note,  all  wrinkled  and  yellow.  He  has  a  way  of  talking  in 
monosyllables,  as  if  a  niggard  of  his  breath.  He  has  never 
condescended  to  notice  "  my  niece,"  further  than  by  the  short- 
est of  bows  and  monosyllables ;  therefore,  I  was  much  sur- 


50  LEAVES    HiO.M    THE   TREE   IGDRASYL. 

prised  this  morning,  when  uncle  sent  for  me  to  his  room  and 

told  me,  in  his  most  polite  tones,  that  this  Mr.  A had 

made  me  an  offer  of  his  hand  and  fortune ;  he  did  not  sa;» 
heart,  and  it  was  well  he  did  not,  for  I  should  have  laughet 
in  his  face.  However,  I  kept  a  grave  face,  while  he  conde 
scended  to  point  out  to  me  the  advantages  which  would  result 
both  to  my  mother  and  myself,  from  the  match.  He  laid 
great  stress  on  our  present  straitened  condition,  and  the  "  low 
vulgar  people  "  with  whom  it  necessarily  forced  us  to  come  in 
contact,  if  not  to  associate  —  my  mother's  declining  health ; 
in  short,  he  took  me  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  the  modern  tem- 
ple of  wealth  and  position,  and  showed  me  all  the  goodly 
things  that  might  be  mine  if  I  would  sell  myself  to  this 

respectable  piece  of  old  parchment,  Mr.  A ;  and  then 

very  politely  saying,  with  a  look  at  my  face  and  figure,  that 
a  woman  in  my  position  coijld  hardly  hope  to  do  better,  left 
it  for  me  to  decide. 

I  very  decidedly,  but  very  briefly,  declined  the  honor,  say- 
ing that  he  ought  to  know  that  considerations  of  wealth  had 
little,  influence  with  one  of  my  father's  family. 

He  stared  at  me  a  moment,  then  coolly  bowed  me  out  of 
his  room,  as  he  would  one  of  his  business  clerks.  But  I  see 
he  is  decidedly  angry,  else  I  should  be  inclined  to  laugh  at 
the  whole  affair. 

Jan.  10th.  —  I  must  ride  no  more  with  H .  It  is  evi- 
dent that  he  loves  me,  and  I  will  spare  himself  and  me  the 
pain  of  an  edaircissement,  if  possible.  This  Queen  Vashti 
air  will  not  answer  much  longer ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  shall 
soon  go  home !  It  is  the  most  convincing  proof  of  the  truth 
of  my  suspicions,  that  he  thus  defers  to  my  will,  —  he,  the 
accomplished  man  of  the  world.  And  yet,  this  very  trait 
renders  him  unfit  to  be  my  husband.  He  whom  I  call  by  that 
name  must  be  guided  by  no  one  but  God  and  his  own  con- 
victions. 

Jan.  \btk.  —  They  have  been  spoken  —  those  words  which 


THE   DIARY.  51 

I  so  dreaded  to  hear;  and,  0,  Heaven!  what  am  I,  that  I 
should  inflict  such  pain  and  suffering  upon  any  human  soul  ? 
Never  did  he  seem  so  truly  good  and  noble  as  when,  putting 
aside  all  earthly  considerations,  he  plead  in  trembling  tones 
for  my  love,  for  life's  best  boon  from  my  hands ! 

And  yet,  never  did  I  feel  it  more  impossible  to  grant  his 
prayer.  God  knows  I  would  have  done  so,  if  I  could;  I 
would  have  put  away  my  long-cherished  dreams  as  idle,  had 
I  found  any  response  to  his  words.  I  even  plead  for  him ;  I 
set  before  me  all  his  goodness  and  nobleness,  his  growing 
sympathy  with  my  tastes  and  pursuits,  the  wide  influence  for 
good  which,  he  urged,  I  possessed  over  him.  I  thought  of 
my  mother  —  of  the  life  of  toil  and  isolation  that  lay  before 
me ;  but  there  came  no  response,  and  I  dare  not  trifle  with 
eternal  truth. 

He  plead  for  hope,  and  urged  the  love  which  is  the  meed 
of  years  of  tenderness  and  devotion.  It  cannot  be.  I  have 
been  down  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  my  heart,  and  I 
know,  by  the  love  that  went  out  so  spontaneously  toward 
another,  that  there  are  abysses  of  tenderness  —  ay,  passion  — 

there,  that  H has  no  power  to  move ;  and,  knowing  this, 

I  dare  not  trust  to  years. 

So  I  let  him  look  into  my  heart, —  God  gave  me  strength  to 
do  it, —  and,  with  an  incoherent  blessing  on  me  for  my  truth, 
he  went  out  into  the  storm  and  darkness;  but  the  wintry 
sleet,  nor  the  north  wind,  nor  the  darkness,  is  not  more  cold 
and  dreary  than  the  heart  he  has  left  behind!  0,  they 
know  not  woman's  heart  who  talk  of  the  pride  of  conquest ! 

There  is  nothing  on  God's  earth  that  teaches  humility,  like 
the  consciousness  of  being  deeply  and  truly  beloved ! 

Jan.  IQtk.  —  Kept  my  room  all  day,  feeling  sad,  weak, 
miserable.  There  was  "  a  lion  in  the  way,"  let  me  turn 
in  any  direction.  Aunt  came  up,  good  and  prosy  and  practi- 
cal, and  talked  about  blisters  back  of  the  ears.  Heaven 
knows  I  would  have  covered  myself  with  them  if  they  would 


52  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IGDRASYL. 

have  drawn  back  my  faith  and  hope  —  my  courage  and 
strength.  I  heard  Emilia  below  chatting  to  some  young 
friends,  for  she  has  already  become  a  favorite  in  society,  and 
I  sat  and  pitied  myself,  a  plain,  poor,  ungifted  soul,  until  I 
suddenly  thought  of  Milton's  noble  line : 

"  Those  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait ;  " 

and  it  brought  aid  and  comfort.     What  cowards  we  are  ! 

Jan.  ~LSth.  —  They  say  H has  gone  to  New  York,  en 

route  for  Europe !  Doctor  G was  sitting  with  us  when 

Emilia  came  in,  having  just  heard  the  news  up  town.  Sud- 
denly, interrupting  herself  in  her  exclamations  of  surprise, 
aunt  turned  to  me :  "  You  said  H called  here  the  even- 
ing we  went  to  hear  Holmes'  lecture.  Did  he  say  nothing  of 
this,  Elizabeth?" 

"  No,  certainly  not,  aunt ;"  and  joy  that  I  was  thus  able 
to  speak  the  truth  gave  me  courage  to  boldly  face  Doctor 
G 's  searching  look. 

But  I  ivas  glad  that  uncle  came  in  that  moment,  and  created 
a  diversion  in  my  favor.  He  never  sees  mystery  in  anything 

that  cannot  be  solved  by  the  interest  table,  and  thought  H 

gone  to  Europe  on  business.  "  Stocks  are  rising,  and  he  has 
some  interest  there,  I  believe,"  he  said. 

"  Stocks,  uncle !  "  said  Emilia,  impatiently.  "  When  did 

Fred.  H ever  trouble  himself  about  stocks,  I  should  like 

to  know?" 

"  I  'm  really  afraid  it 's  an  attack  of  brain  fever,"  began 
aunt,  despondingly.  "  His  father  died  of  it,  and  he  has  been 
threatened  with  it  more  than  once.  Don't  you  think  so,  doc- 
tor ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  madam.  Not  that  a  young  fellow's 
brain  —  ay,  and  blood,  too  —  does  not  get  into  a  strange  sort 
of  whirl  once  in  a  while,  but  from  other  causes  than  conges- 
tion." And  again  he  scanned  my  face  closely. 

Aunt  sighed,  and  unt1^  spent  a  whole  twenty  minutes,  a 


THE    1>IAKY.  58 

long  time  for  him,  in  trying  to  prove  to  her  the  impossibility 
of  there  being  any  hereditary  taint  in  the  blood  of  her  fami- 
y  —  a  family  related  to  him. 

According  to  him,  all  his  own  relatives  have  died  through 
some  oversight  which  might  have  been  seen  and  provided  for, 
had  they  been  endowed  with  his  wisdom.  I  presume  he  ex- 
pects to  be  translated. 

Jan.  20th.  —  Emilia  takes  H 's  absence  to  heart. 

What  does  it  mean  ?  Underneath  that  war  of  words,  which 
sometimes  bordered  on  sarcasm,  between  them,  did  there  lurk 
a  deeper  feeling?  I  must  look  to  this.  She  is  in  high  spirits 

to-night,  though,  because  Mr.  E ,"who  lectured  before  the 

"  Institute  "  last  night,  is  to  dine  here  to-morrow.  She  proph- 
esies I  will  fall  in  love  with  him  at  once.  Perhaps  so ;  I 
shall  see. 

Jan.  21st.  —  He  has  been  here  —  the  author,  poet,  prophet, 
whom  I  have  reverenced  for  years.  I  have  looked  upon  his 
face,  listened  to  his  voice,  and  it  is  much  to  say  that  he  did 
not  disappoint  me.  The  face  is  good,  grave,  and  serene ;  but 
his  chief  power  lies  in  his  voice  and  manner,  which  grows  on 
one  until  it  becomes  a  complete  fascination. 

At  least,  so  I  thought,  when  he  turned  from  the  mixed 
company,  after  dinner,  and  began  to  talk  to  me  of  Browning's 
poems,  which  lay  upon  the  table.  Perhaps  I  was  prepossessed 
by  the  interest  with  which  he  listened  to  my  remarks,  but 
every  word  seemed  the  echo  of  a  loving  heart,  an  earnest  soul, 
and  a  subtile  intellect;  subtile  and  beautiful,  rather  than 
deep  or  strong  —  passionless  and  calm  as  a  Greek  statue.  He 
is  a  wonderful  man,  and  yet  I  could  feel  rather  than  see  his 
limitations ;  and,  though  he  talked  so  eloquently  of  "  Hakeem 
in  the  Return  of  the  Druses,"  he  could  never  be  a  "  Hakeem  " 
for  me — scarcely  a  "  Djabal."  And  yet,  verily,  there  are 
moods  when  it  seems  an  exceedingly  pleasant  sin  to  fall  down 
and  worship  false  gods  ! 

Jan.  22d.  —  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  here.  Some 
5* 


54  I.KAVEs    FUOM    THE   TREE   IGDRASYL. 

demoniacal  influence  pervades  our  atmosphere,  and  everything 
goes  wrong.  Emilia  is  capricious  as  the  wind ;  aunt  is  haunted 
by  a  legion  of  household  evils,  which,  like  John  Barleycorn, 
"  rise  up  again  "  as  soon  as  I  think  I  have  laid  them ;  and  I 
get  out  of  patience,  and  pray  earnestly  that  I  may  never  be  a 
poor-rich  woman. 

I  have  seen  Mrs.  N .  She  is  visiting  at  her  uncle, 

Judge  A 's,  and  was  at  the  concert  to-night  —  a  beautiful 

woman,  of  right  queenly  presence. 

Evening  of  Jan.  22d. —  Eureka!  Emilia  loves  H !  I 

went  to  her  room  to-day,  and  found  her  in  a  violent  passion. 
Bridget,  the  chambermaid,  aunt's  new  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  in 
dusting  Emily's  room,  had  thrown  down  a  paper-weight  rep- 
resenting Psyche  asleep,  and  broken  it  into  a  dozen  pieces. 
I  had  often  admired  the  beautiful  little  gem,  and  could  have 
wept  when  I  saw  it  in  fragments ;  but  I  was  surprised  at 
Emilia's  flashing  eyes  and  bitter  reproaches.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  me  she  burst  into  tears,  and  exclaimed, 

"  I  can't  help  it !     See  there,  Elizabeth  !  " 

The  frightened  Irish  girl  took  the  opportunity  to  escape, 
while  I  sat  down  to  try  to  comfort  Emilia  with  a  vision  of  all 
the  pretty  paper-weights  to  be  had  at  Kilby  &  Brown's,  and 
prosed  on  about  the  folly  of  vexing  herself  thus  for  a  trifle. 

She  raised  her  head,  —  for  she  had  been  leaning  on  my 
shoulder,  —  and  said,  petulantly,  shaking  back  her  long  curls, 

"  Trifles  !  That  is  all  you  know  about  it,  Miss  Lytton." 
Then,  blushing  at  her  rudeness,  she  said,  "  Pardon  me,  Eliz- 
abeth, I  am  really  ashamed  of  myself;  but  that  Psyche  was 
a  gift  to  me,  some  three  years  since,  from  a  friend,  and  I  prized 
it  very  much,  very  much,  indeed,  for  its  associations.  But 
it  is  as  well  thus,"  she  added,  with  a  singular  expression  of 
haughty  scorn. 

So  it  was  the  gift  of  a  friend,  —  a  lover,  I  mused,  as  I 
went  down  stairs ;  and  I  was  fast  weaving  out,  as  is  my  wont, 
a  web  of  romance,  when  I  was  roused  by  aunt's  voice,  asking, 


THE   DIARY.  55 

"  What  has  that  Bridget  done,  now  ? " 

"  Broken  Emilia's  Psyche  !  " 

"  What,  poor  H 's  gift  ?  " 

So,  so,  I  thought ;  "  poor  H "  (every  one  is  always 

"poor"  with  Aunt  Sewal  when  absent  from  her)  is  that 
"  friend."  Now  for  the  nature  of  those  cherished  associations. 
Aunt  has  not  a  grain  of  secretiveness,  and  one  or  two  leading 
questions  drew  from  her  all  I  wanted  to  know. 

Before  H went  to  Europe,  he  had  been  quite  devoted 

to  his  cousin.  The  families  began  to  look  upon  their  union, 
at  some  future  time,  as  quite  possible ;  but  just  before  he  left 
they  had  quarrelled,  and,  since  his  return,  though  perfectly 
polite  to  each  other,  they  have  manifested  no  desire  to  resume 
their  former  relations.  Aunt  could  not  say  as  she  was 
"  sorry,  —  she  loved  them  both  as  her  own  children,  but  they 
might  as  well  choose  somewhere  else.  She  had  seen  quite 
enough  of  marrying  cousins  in  Jane  Welmot's  case."  Some- 
thing tells  me  that  it  will  be  well  with  these  young  friends 
yet.  I  rejoice! 

Jan.  23d.  —  A  letter  to-day  from  our  kind  neighbor,  Mrs. 

F .  She  says  mother  has  changed  very  strangely  within 

a  week ;  thinks  she  has  had  a  slight  attack  of  paralysis,  and 
advises  me  to  come  home.  I  have  announced  my  determina- 
tion to  start  to-morrow ;  but  uncle  and  aunt  talk  of  delay,  of 
"  next  week,"  of  the  necessity  of  being  "  calm,"  and  all  that. 
They  forget  that  my  mother  is  all  I  have  on  earth. 

I  have  agreed  to  stay  until  day  after  to-morrow,  when  un. 
cle  will  go  with  me  as  far  as  New  Haven,  on  his  way  to  New 
York.  0,  mother,  mother ! 

Jan.  Z&tk.  —  I  have  been  to  bid  good-by  to  the  Lees.  I 
fear  I  envied  them,  they  were  so  happy.  Mary  is  at  school, 

thanks  to  the  noiseless  kindness  of  dear  Mrs.  Gr ,  and  the 

mother  and  sister  showed  me  her  first  problems  in  algebra 
with  a  mixture  of  pride  and  delight  which  was  really  amus- 
ing. The  little  boy  did  not  seem  to  share  in  their  reverence 


56  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IGDRASTL. 

for  those  bits  of  paper,  for  he  snatched  at  one  of  them,  and 
tore  it  sadly,  in  his  resentment  at  my  considering  them  more 
worthy  of  attention  than  himself.  And,  after  all,  were  there 
not  in  that  little  chubby  being  problems  of  far  greater  impor- 
tance than  any  which  mathematicians  have  solved  —  to  which 
those  of  Newton  and  La  Place  are  but  trifles,  save  as  they 
elucidate  man's  capability  of  approximation  towards  the  Di- 
vine ? 

From  the  widow's  I  went  to  Dr.  Or 's.  The  doctor  was 

fortunately  at  home,  looking  over  a  ponderous  "  ledger,"  or 
"  day-book,"  and  humming  his  favorite  song,  "  A  man  's  a 
man  for  a'  that." 

"  True,"  I  cried,  as  I  entered  softly,  and  stole  up  behind 
him ;  "  and,  save  in  the  person  of  the  writer  of  those  words, 
never  stood  text  and  proof  in  such  close  relation,  doctor." 

"How  now,  you  thief!  What  business  have  you  to  be 
stealing  into  a  man's  house  after  this  fashion  ?  But  sit  down 
there,  while  I  go  hunt  up  Lydia  Mason ;  she  's  been  looking 
for  you  these  two  days." 

"  You  may  save  yourself  that  trouble,  for,  if  I  mistake 
not,  I  saw  her  go  into  the  house  of  your  neighbor,  Mrs. 

L ,  as  I  turned  the  corner.  So  prepare  yourself  to  play 

the  agreeable." 

"  The  Lord  help  us,  then !  "  he  cried,  with  a  ludicrous  ex- 
pression of  resignation.  "  I  had  rather  face  a  case  of  ship- 
fever,  than  a  fashionable  young  lady  !  " 

"  And  pray  what  entitles  me  to  that  distinction  ?  " 

"  Look  at  yourself  and  answer.  Who  but  fools,  —  which 
is  but  good  Saxon  for  the  whole  class,  —  would  put  velvet  and 
furs  enough  about  their  shoulders  to  rig  out  the  Grand  Lama, 
and  leave  their  feet  bare  ?  "  and  he  gave  a  glance  of  wither- 
ing  contempt  at  my  beautiful,  new  gaiters. 

"  But  these  are  cork  soles,  and  "  — 

"  The  devil  take  the  cork  soles  in  such  weather  as  this,  fit 


THE   DIARY.  5Y 

only  to  buoy  up  witches !  Where  were  your  common  sense 
and  rubbers  wKen  you  started  ?  " 

"  One  minus,  and  the  other  plus,"  I  said,  laughing.  "  I 
did  not  think  the  pavement  damp,  and  my  rubbers  are  so 
large  " — 

"  That  they  make  your  feet  look  larger.  Well,  you  are 
pretty  well  off  in  that  line,"  he  went  on,  grimacing ;  "  but 
what  in  Heaven's  name  do  you  suppose  a  sensible  man  cares 
about  how  large  a  woman's  foot  is,  provided  it  be  not  de- 
formed, and  she  has  brains  enough  in  her  skull  to  balance  it  ?  " 

And  so  he  scolded  and  joked  till  Mrs.  Gr came,  and  we 

had  a  long  talk  of  my  future. 

Why  is  it  that  I  can  speak  to  these  people  of  things  upon 
which  my  lips  are  sealed  to  those  of  my  own  blood  ?  Blood  ! 
those  alone  are  of  our  blood  who  understand  -us,  who  help  us 
on  the  ways  of  life  !  God  bless  ye,  true  friends !  The  cur- 
rents of  life  are  driving  us  far  apart,  but  my  way  cannot  be 
wholly  dark  while  I  keep  the  memory  of  your  love  ! 

Passing  through  Pearl-street,  on  my  way  home,  I  came 

suddenly  upon  my  old  playmate  and  schoolmate,  James  B . 

He  would  have  avoided  me  if  he  could,  but  I  saw  his  inten- 
tion and  defeated  it.  He  took  my  outstretched  hand,  and 
answered  my  greeting  without  raising  his  eyes.  Alas !  then, 
the  rumors  of  his  "  bad  way"  are  true.  The  pale  face,  lustre- 
less eyes,  nerveless  figure  and  shambling  step,  were  proof 
enough. 

He  seemed  to  wish  to  pass  on,  but  I  would  not  be  put  off. 
I  spoke  of  old  times,  —  of  Annie,  his  sister,  long  since  among 
the  angels;  of  his  father,  mother.  Had  he  seen  them  of 

late  1  No  ;  he  had  not  been  in  D for  more  than  a  year. 

Indeed  !  Would  he  not  promise  to  meet  me  there,  week  after 
next,  say  on  Thursday  ?  I  intended  paying  his  father  and 
mother  a  visit  as  soon  as  I  got  home,  and  should  need  him 
there  to  bring  up  the  "  Roxbury  russets,"  as  of  old.  Would  n't 
he  promise  ? 


58  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IQDRASYL. 

He  muttered  something  of  engagements ;  but  I  urged  my 
point  until  he  promised. 

Will  he  keep  his  word  ?  I  trust  so.  He  has  been  the 
victim  of  evil  influences,  but  He  who  gave  back  without 
Xain's  gates  that  only  son  to  his  mother,  is  mighty  still. 

Jan.  "2Qth.  —  0,  it  is  sad,  terrible,  to  come  to  one's  home, 
and  be  welcomed,  not  by  the  firm,  hard  clasp,  the  dear,  loving 
glances,  the  warm  words  of  yore,  but  by  trembling  hands,  a 
shaking  head,  and  the  thick,  troubled  speech,  that  indicate 
the  presence  of  death  in  life.  Mother,  mother !  How  shall 
I  bear  this  ? 

Now  I  must  find  some  words  that  will  soften  this  hard- 
hearted creditor,  Mr.  J .  Yesterday,  when  I  met  him, 

the  memory  of  all  his  villany,  —  the  years  when,  as  lessee  of 
these  few  acres,-  he  fleeced  us  gradually,  the  hypocrite  !  until 
by  one  bold  manoeuvre  he  claimed  all,  —  rose  up  before  me, 
and  choked  me.  0,  mother,  would  that  I  had  been  older 
then,  or  you  wiser !  But  your  wisdom  was  never  of  this 
earth.  Now  I  will  go  down  on  my  knees  to  him,  to  keep  a 
shelter  above  your  head  for  the  little  time  that  is  left  you. 
He  must  be  human, — he  cannot  be  more  greedy  than  death ! 

Shall  I  try  uncle  again  ?  No,  I  can  work,  not  beg.  I 
told  him  all  I  could  of  this,  as  we  came  down  yesterday,  and 
got  for  an  answer,  "  Mortgages  are  ugly  things ;  best  get  rid 
of  it.  Your  mother  never  had  any  business  tact.  Better  let 
the  place  go;  I  advised  it  years  ago." 

Sell  the  place !  It  might  have  been  done,  and  wisely, 
perhaps,  some  months  ago.  But  now,  when  you  cling  to  it 
so  childishly,  mother  —  no ! 

Jan.  30th.  —  "  '  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters,  for  thou 
shalt  find  it  after  many  days.'  You  and  yours  helped  me 
years  ago,  my  child,  and  now  it  is  my  turn;  "  and,  with  these 
words,  kind  old  Widow  Dean  has  installed  herself  as  my 
mother's  nurse.  Ay,  and  I  "reap  also  where  I  never  scat- 
tered ;  "  for  there  are  bread,  and  ham,  and  cakes,  and  pies, 


THE  DIAKY.  59 

sent  in  by  kind  and  thoughtful  hearts,  and  the  miracle  of  the 
widow's  cruse  seems  like  to  be  repeated.  God  reward 
them  ! 

Feb.  8th.  —  To-morrow  is  the  day  of  my  appointment  with 
James  B .  I  regret  that  I  cannot  keep  it ;  but  it  can- 
not be.  I  will  write  and  tell  him  why. 

Feb.  ~L9tk.  —  I  did  go  ;  for  when,  to  please  mother,  I 
explained  to  whom  I  was  writing,  and  why,  two  days  ago, 
she  insisted  on  my  going ;  and  when  I  refused  fell  a  weeping, 

like  a  petulant  child,  and  complained  to  Mrs.  T ,  who 

happened  to  come  in,  that  I  was  undutiful  and  ungrateful. 
0,  mother,  mother,  not  even  death  could  fall  heavier  on  my 
heart  than  these  poor,  senseless  words  and  tears ! 

Mrs.  T advised  me  to  go,  saying  that  it  was  wisest  to 

keep  her  quiet,  —  that  she  would  come  in  and  help  Mrs. 
Dean,  if  needed.  "  And  you  can  take  old  Starface,"  added 
the  kind  neighbor ;  "he  has  not  done  anything  in  a  week,  for 
father 's  laid  up  with  the  rheumatiz,  and  the  boys  use  the  colt. 
He  is  a  little  stiff  at  first,  like  us  old  folks ;  but  get  him 
started,  and  he  '11  take  you  over  there  like  a  bird.  You 
have  n't  forgot  how  to  drive .  I  s'pose  ?  " 

I  accepted  the  offer,  and  at  sunset  was  sitting  between  old 

Farmer  B and  his  wife,  talking  of  old  things  and  new, 

life  and  death,  and  the  things  which  lie  beyond ;  for,  as  the 
old  man's  eyes  have  darkened  (he  has  been  blind  for  more 
than  a  year,  he  tells  me),  he  has  come  to  see  more  and  more 
with  the  eye  of  the  spirit,  which  discerneth  all  things.  They 
said  little  of  James,  though  I  knew  he  was  ever  in  their 
thoughts ;  and  I  did  not  tell  them  of  his  promise,  fearing  to 
raise  hopes  which  might  be  disappointed.  But  they  told  me 
of  their  troubles ;  of  the  farm,  —  how  it  was  fast  running 
down,  —  buildings  and  fences  going  to  decay  for  want  of  an 
efficient  master ;  and  thus  the  hours  ran  on  till  the  tall  old 
clock  struck  nine.  I  still  talked  on*  until  another  hour 
slipped  away,  and  then,  sad  and  disappointed,  took  the  tall 


60          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

TJ 

glittering  brass  candlestick  which  had  been  waiting  for -me 
the  last  hour  on  the  stand.  There  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and,  begging  the  old  lady  to  let  me  go,  I  hurried  into  the 
little  entry,  shutting  the  door  behind  me.  It  was,  indeed, 
James. 

When  he  saw  me,  his  face  lighted  up,  and,  taking  my 
hand,  he  said: 

"  So  you  did  indeed  trust  me,  Elizabeth !  " 

"  Yes,  indeed.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why  not !  "  in  a  tone  of  mingled  bitterness  and  surprise ; 
"  do  you  not  know  what  I  am,  —  a  drunkard,  a  bankrupt,  an 
outcast,  a  curse  to  myself  and  others  ?  " 

"The  question  is  not  what  you  are,  but  what  you  can  be, 
James.  You  are  a  man,  still,  for  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  who  will  believe  it  ?  "  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  I  do.  There  are  those  in  the  next  room  who  believe  it. 
Can  you  doubt  that  ?  And  there  is  One  above,  James, — He 
who  seeth  not  as  man  seeth,  —  He  believes  it.  0,  beware 
how  you  charge  upon  others  the  sin  of  your  own  unbelief!  " 

I  was  excited  and  nervous",  and  burst  into  tears,  as  I  drew 
him  into  the  next  room.  I  know  not  well  what  followed ;  I 
heard  only  the  mother's  low  weeping,  and  the  blind  father's 
broken  voice,  as  he  gave  thanks  for  "  this  my  son,  which  was 
lost,  and  is  found !  " 

Again  we  gathered  rorund  the  fire  ;  we  did  not  speak  of 
the  past,  but  the  russets  were  brought  up,  and  we  talked 
over  the  condition  of  the  farm,  —  every  field  of  which  was 
almost  as  familiar  to  me  as  to  James,  — .the  comparative 
qualities  of  the  "Hudson  meadow"  and  the  "clover  piece," 
for  spring  wheat,  the  amount  of  available  rail  timber  in  the 
"  over-yonder  "  woods,  and,  before  I  slept,  we  had  run  a  new 
fence  around  the  "  Juniper  lot,"  and  James  had  rooted  out 
their  spreading  branches.  May  he  as  easily  root  up  his  evil 
habits !  But  that  can  hardly  be  ;  yet,  when  I  left  this  morn- 


THE   DIARY.  61 

ing,  as  he  placed  the  reins  in  my  hands,  he  said,  earnestly, 
"  You  have  treated  me  as  a  man, — spoken  to  me  as  one, 
Elizabeth,  and  you  shall  see  that  I  will  be  one."  —  Ay,  with 
God's  help,  James. 

Feb.  '2§th.  —  Another  stroke  of  paralysis,  and  now  my 
mother  knows  me  no  more,  —  perhaps  no  more  on  earth.  I 

heard  Mrs.  F calling  to  her  daughter  Mary,  a  moment 

ago.  My  mother  will  never  call  me  again,  never  utter  my 
name.  This  is  tasting  the  bitterness  of  death ! 

Feb.  28th.  —  A  letter  from  Emilia  Cranston.  How  strange 
and  unreal  sound  her  gay  words  of  "'balls,  and  parties,  and 
conquests  ! "  One  thing  gives  me  pleasure,  as  much  as  this 

weary  heart  can  feel.     Fred.  H did  not  go  to  Europe, 

only  to  Cuba,  and  is  now  in  New  York. 

March  2Qth.  —  All  is  over !  My  mother,  my  all,  lies 
pulseless  and  rigid  in  the  room  below.  I  have  sat  by  her 
for-  hours  in  a  kind  of  dull,  stupidity,  scarcely  recognizing 
anything,  feeling  anything,  but  this  leaden  sense  of  loss. 
When  will  the  end  come  ? 

March  2lst.  —  Last  night  I  slept,  —  for  the  first  time  in 
four  nights,  —  a  heavy,  dreamful,  troubled  sleep,  —  a  coun- 
terpart of  the  day.  Then  I  rose  and  went  down  to  the  white 
form,  lying  so  still  there  beneath  the  white  sheet, — that  which 
was  my  mother,  and  yet  was  not ;  and  for  the  first  time  the 
tears  sprang  forth  —  tears  for  myself,  not  her.  I  could 
recognize  the  hand  of  God,  but  not  trust  it.  0,  how  dark 
and  lonely  looked  the  way  of  life  !  I  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  through  my  blinding  tears.  0,  how  dreary 
and  miserable  seemed  that  prospect  which  ever  before  had 
worn  some  new  phase  of  beauty,  — that  long  strip  of  "  tidal 
sand"  —  the  tall,  black  stakes  of  the  "fishing  ponds"  —  the 
ravening  waves  in  the  foreground,  stealing  ever  in  and  in,  as 
death  had  stolen  on*  me  —  the  waste  of  wild  waters  backed  by 
a  shroud  of  gray  March  mist,  through  which  streamed  faintly 
the  weak  beams  of  the  rising  sun. 
6 


62  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Suddenly,  twittering  down  upon  a  bunch  of  catnip,  whose 
dry  stalks  rustled  beneath  the  window,  came  two  little  brown 
sparrows.  As  I  watched  them,  hopping  from  stalk  to  stalk, 
picking  at  the  dried  seed-whorls,  I  remembered  His  words, 
"  Ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows."  Did  He  send 
them  ?  0,  did  He  not  ?  —  for  my  heart  accepted  their 
teaching,  and  was  comforted. 

March  23d.  —  I  have  looked  my  last  upon  that  face ;  1 
have  seen  the  dust  heaped  over  the  coffin;  I  comprehend 
the  mournful  significance  of  the  old  minister's  words,  when 
he  thanked  friends  and  neighbors  for  their  assistance  in 
"  burying  our  dead  from  sight." 

As  I  turned  away  from  that  grave,  now  my  only  heritage, 
my  hand  was  grasped  by  blind  old  Mr.  B.,  who,  with  James, 
had  come,  not  merely  to  pay  the  last  respect  to  the  dead,  but 
to  offer  to  the  orphan  daughter  a  home  in  their  house. 

I  was  deeply  touched  by  this  kindness,  but  more  by  James' 
words  and  manner,  when  he  said,  timidly,  as  if  his  happiness 

might  deepen  my  grief,  that  "  Emily  L had  forgiven 

him  his  errors — that  she  would  be  his  wife  in  the  spring,  and 
longed  to  have  me  come." 

For  a  time  I  may  go  to  them,  but  that  must  not  be  my 
"  abiding  place."  A  life  of  action  must  be  mine.  I  have 
health  and  education,  and  all  up  and  down  the  great  thor- 
oughfares of  our  land  are  those  waiting  to  be  taught.  Some- 
where among  these  I  shall  find  a  place,  and  labor  on  until  I 
go  down  to  the  grave,  one  of  those 

"  Whwn  men  lore  not,  but  yet  regret." 

March  25th.  —  "  God  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there 
was  light !  "  Primordial  words ;  yet  have  they  not  a  sig- 
nificant relation1"  to  the  experience  of  every  soul  ?  Thus  it 
hath  been  with  me. 

0,  the  dismantling  of  our  old  home ;  the  moving  of  fur- 
niture that  seems  to  have  been  made  to  fill  just  those  places, 


THE   DIARY.  63 

and  none  other ;  the  rifling  of  drawers,  and  the  desecration 
of  even  friendly  hands  touching  the  cherished  relics  of  the 

dead !  But  it  must  be  borne,  that  Mr.  J may  have  his 

"  bond."  He  had  kept  his  promise,  and  I  should  mine. 

After  seeing  the  few  relics  I  had  selected  sent  off  to  Mr. 

F 's,  who  had  kindly  offered  me  a  home,  I  begged  his 

wife  to  leave  me  to  pass  the  last  few  hours  of  daylight 
alone. 

0,  those  hours !  too  painful  for  me  to  recall.  The  wild 
tumult  of  recollections  that  coursed  through  my  mind,  as  I 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  each  one  growing  dearer  and 
dearer,  until,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  with  a  blessing  on  the 
threshold,  I  crossed  it,  never  to  return. 

The  daffodils,  planted  years  ago  by  hands  now  still  in  the 
grave,  were  out,  and  I  gathered  a  handful,  and  stood  leaning 
over  the  gate,  —  how  well  I  remembered  the  time  when  I  was 
obliged  to  stand  on  tip-toe  to  reach  the  latch  !  —  looking  up  to 
the  leafless  boughs  of  tie  maples,  upon  which  the  pale  sun- 
light still  lingered. 

0,  those  trees  !  They  were  rooted  in  my  heart ;  they  had 
mingled  their  low,  slumberous  music  with  my  mother's  songs 
above  my  cradle,  murmured  solemn  responses  to  my  evening 
prayers,  shaded  my  childish  sports,  my  happy  maiden  dream- 
ings  ;  and  was  it  not  meet  that  they  should  be  leafless,  now 
that  my  path  was  all  shadow  ?  Then  I  remembered  my 
father,  as  he  lay  in  his  open  coffin  beneath  them,  while 
friends  and  neighbors  crowded  around  to  take  a  last  look ;  I 
recalled  the  very  play  of  the  shadows  on  his  pale  face,  as  they 
lifted  me  up  to  kiss  his  cheek ;  and,  resting  my  head  upon  the 
gate,  I  wept  with  the  convulsive  bitterness  of  a  child.  How 
long  I  knew  not ;  I  was  conscious  of  nothing,  until  a  deep, 
manly  voice  at  my  side  said,  "  Elizabeth !  " 

I  did  not  see  the  face  —  scarcely  the  arms  that  were  held 
out  to  me ;  but  the  next  moment  I  was  folded  close  within 
their  embrace.  What  were  earthly  houses,  homes,  lands  to 


64  LEAVES   FROM   THE   TREE   IGDRA3YL. 

me  then,  when  I  knew  the  strong  heart  beneath  my  head 
would  shelter  me  forever? 

Winding  his  arms  closer  and  closer  about  me,  as  one  cradles 
a  weary  child,  he  let  me  weep  on,  until  my  grief  spent  itself 
in  long-drawn  sobs.  Then,  raising  my  head,  and  drawing  my 
arm  through  his,  he  said,  "  That  will  do,  Elizabeth ;  you  are 
getting  cold." 

I  moved  on  at  once.  When  did  I  ever  dream  of  opposing 
that  tone,  so  quiet,  yet  so  resistless  ?  I  did  not  even  ask  how 
he  came  there ;  it  was  enough  that  it  was  so.  Nor  did  he 
tell ;  but  instinctively  divining,  as  it  seemed,  that  my  way  lay 

towards  Mr.  F 's,  he  walked  on  quietly,  speaking  of  the 

shows  of  country  life.  But,  when  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
door,  he  paused,  and,  taking  both  my  hands  in  his,  said 
earnestly,  "  Elizabeth,  you  have  suffered  excitement  enough 
for  one  day,  and  too  much ;  but,  before  we  part  to-night,  it  is 
fitting  and  right  that  I  should  ask  and  you  should  answer  one 
question. 

"  I  love  you,  Elizabeth.  Tell  me,  is  it  as  I  hope  ?  does 
your  heart  fully  respond  to  mine  ?  will  it  trust  me  forever  ?  " 

He  ha,d  put  me  from  him,  and  stood  looking  down  into  my 
eyes  with  that  deep  questioning  gaze  of  his.  For  a  moment 
I  could  not  speak. 

"  Elizabeth,  my  pupil ! " 

"  My  master,  my  all !  "  and  then  he  gathered  me  to  his 
breast ;  his  lips  met  mine,  and  the  garnered  love  of  years  was 
poured  out  in  that  kiss. 

Suddenly  loosing  me  from  his  embrace,  he  said,  "  This  is 
wrong ;  you  are  faint  and  weary,  poor  child.  I  have  much  to 
say,  but  my  words  must  wait  until  to-morrow.  Let  me  come 
to  you,  say  at  nine  in  the  morning,  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
please  make  such  temporary  arrangements  as  you  wish,  for  we 
must  be  in  New  Haven  to-morrow  night." 

"  We !  so  soon  ?     What  for  ?  "  I  asked  in  a  breath. 
O,  for  several  reasons,"  he  said,  smiling  that  old  quiet 


THE   MARY.  65 

smile  ;  "  the  strongest,  perhaps,  because  I  have  busied  myself 
in  arranging  a  home  there,  which  refuses  to  seem  home  until 
a  certain  treasure  is  there." 

"  But -^  but"— 

"  0,  you  know,  of  old,  that  I  never  entertain  '  buts  !'  You 
have  promised  to  trust  me  for  the  future,  and  I  mean  hence- 
forth that  the  trust  shall  be  no  sinecure.  There,  now  promise 
me  you  will  go  in  and  go  to  sleep  ;  promise,  my  darling." 

My  darling !  Are  there  sweeter  words  in  our  mother 
tongue  ?  I  promised,  but  how  can  I  sleep  ?  There  are  nights 
enough  to  come,  in  which  to  sleep  ;  but  these  emotions  —  they 
come  but  once  in  a  lifetime ;  there  may  be  others,  deeper, 
richer,  more  intense,  but  these  come  never  again !  His  dar- 
ling! 

New  Haven,  April  ~LQth.  —  He  came  that  morning,  and, 

after  some  explanatory  chat  with  dear  Mrs.  F ,  I  went  up 

stairs,  at  his  suggestion,  to  put  on  my  travelling-dress,  in  order  _ 
to  take  a  short  walk  before  the  carriage  came,  which  was  to 

take  us  to  the  city.     When  I  came  down,  T was  still 

talking  earnestly  with  Mrs.  F ,  who  inspected  my  dress 

closely  (it  was  the  pretty  travelling-dress  I  had  in  H ), 

pulled  a  plait  here- and  another  there,  and  seemed  altogether 
nervous  and  excited,  a  thing  very  unusual  for  her. 

We  walked  on,  talking  of  the  past,  calling  up  the  days  of 
my  pupilage,  and  the  words  and  glances  which  had  at  once  said 
so  much  and  so  little,  until  we  stood  by  my  mother's  grave, 
silently,  a  few  moments ;  then  he  said,  "  We  are  both  orphans, 
and  both  free,  — free  to  act  as  we  choose,  —  are  we  not,  Eliz- 
abeth?" 

And  I  answered,  "  Yes." 

"  Then  go  with  me." 

I  did  not  hesitate,  though  I  apprehended  his  meaning,  when 
he  drew  my  arm  through  his,  and  led  me  into  the  church, 

where  were  gathered  the  old  minister,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F , 

and  a  few  of  the  old  neighbors..     In  a  few  moments  we  had 
6* 


Ob     ,      LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDBASYL. 

ratified  before  the  world  the  vows  of  our  hearts,  and  turned  to 

meet  the  congratulations  of  the  few  friends.  T spoke  for 

me,  kindly  and  gently  thanking  them  for  all  their  kindness ; 
and  then,  in  his  quiet  way,  stepped  past  them,  and  placed  me 
in  the  carriage  waiting  at  the  door. 

"Jtfy  wife,  my  own  wife  !  "  he  whispered,  as  he  took  his 
seat  by  my  side. 

Ah,  then  I  saw  my  mistake !  Then  I  knew  that  there  were 
sweeter  words  than  those  of  the  evening  before  ;  but,  surely, 
none  in  earth  or  heaven  that  can  equal  these ! 

Now  we  are  at  home,  a  pleasant  home,  ay,  and  a  rich 
one,  for  it  contains  two  happy  human  hearts.  I  have  been 
too  happy  to  ask  an  explanation  of  the  past  as  yet.  But  that 

Mrs.  N ;  I  '11  ask  him  about  her  when  he  lays  down 

that  paper. 

"  Harold,  how  was  it  about  that  Mrs.  N ?  Come,  ex- 
plain." 

."  Yes,  darling,  when  you  please  to  enlighten  me  about  that 
Mr.  H ." 

"  0,  you  quibbling  lawyer !  why  don't  you  tell  a  straight 
story,  and  say  you  were  completely  fascinated  ?  " 

"  Because  no  man  is  obliged  to  criminate  himself,  especially 
when  he  is  not  guilty." 

"  But  was  n't  you  a  little  —  well,  interested  in  her  at  one 
time?" 

"  No,  if,  by  interested,  you  mean  anything  more  than  mere 
acquaintance.  Surely,  you  do  not  believe  it?  "  and  he  came 
round  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  by  my  side. 

"  No,  indeed  ;  but  what  was  there  about  it  ?  The  interest 
was  on  her  side,  then,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  taught  you  long  ago  not  to  ask  impertinent 
questions.  Now  it 's  my  turn  to  catechize.  Why  did  n't  you 
marry  young  H ?  " 

"  Because  I  did  not  love  him  well  enough.  But  who  told 
you  he  offered  himself?  " 


THE   DIARY.  67 

"  No  one ;  I  inferred  it  from  some  things.  Besides,  I  was 
given  to  understand  that  it  was  a  settled  thing." 

"Indeed!  by  whom?" 

"  Your  aunt,  for  one." 

"  And  you  believed  it?  "        — 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  my  opinion  of  your  penetration  is 
lessened  perceptibly." 

"Very  likely;* a  not  unusual  experience  with  married 
ladies,  I  believe.  But,  Bessie,"  —  he  went  on,  prisoning  my 
hands  in  his,  and  speaking  gravely,  —  "  you  ought  not  to  re- 
gret it,  for  it  taught  me  the  best  lesson  I  ever  learned  —  how 
dear  you  were  to  my  heart.  I  hoped  that  the  absurd  rumor 

about.  Mrs.  N would  do  as  much  for  you  ;  but  it  seems 

you  defended  her  like  a  true  knight-errant." 

"No,  no,  Harold;  say  rather  it  was  a  proud  woman's  ex- 
piation for  giving,  as  she  thought,  her  heart  unsought." 

"  My  poor  Bessie,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  raising  my  head 
from  his  breast,  "  you  must  have  suffered." 

"  I  did ;  but  tell  me,  you  have  seen  Dr.  Gr ?  " 

11  Yes ;  or  I  should  not  have  you  sitting  by  my  side,  my 
wife  —  the  dearest  sight  a  man  can  see  on  earth ;  at  least,  not 
until  long  years,  perhaps  of  trial,  had  taught  me  the  truth." 

"  And  he  told  you  that  I "  — 

"  No,  he  said  no  such  thing.  But  he  called  himself  and 
me  all  manner  of  hard  names,  and  ordered  me  to  come  right 

down  to  M ,  '  an'  I  loved  him.'  Moreover  he  told  me 

Mr.  H is  to  marry  his  cousin,  Miss  Emilia  Cranston." 

"  Good  !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  and  then,  sparing  H as  much 

as  possible,  I  told  him  all  the  story  of  my  stay  at  uncle's  —  all 
my  trials,  struggles  and  temptations;  and  he,  my  noble  hus- 
band, he  understood  them  all,  and  pointed  out  to  me  their 
uses ;  how  they  had  widened  and  deepened  my  sympathies  with 
humanity,  made  me  stronger  and  wiser  for  the  battle  of  life, 
until  I  could  only  weep  happy  tears. 


68  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TRIE  IGDRA9YL. 

Then  I  showed  all  my  weakness,  my  want  of  faith ;  bat  he 
only  answered,  drawing  me  closer  to  him, 

«  My  bride,  my  wife,  my  life  ! 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine,  and  trust  to  me." 


LOVE'S  LABOR  NOT  LOST. 


'  Face  and  figure  of  a  child, 
Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender, 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her. 

"  And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily." 

PART    I. 

IN  the  door-way  of  one  of  those  old,  dilapidated,  densely 
populated  houses  that  abound  in  the  great  city  of  New  York, 
sat  a  pale,  delicate-looking  child.  It  was  a  narrow,  dark 
street,  leading  down  to  the  river,  lined  with  forlorn,  mouldy- 
looking  old  houses,  leaning  against  each  other  for  support, 
and  from  which  divers  loose  boards  and  timbers  hung  creak- 
ing in  the  wind,  ever  giving  warning  that  they  were  about  to 
fall.  The  air  in  this  street  was  a  strange  combination  of 
odors  arising  from  the  culinary  preparations  going  on  in  the 
over-crowded  dwellings,  varied  occasionally  by  a  strong  smell 
of  tar,  burned  oakum,  *nd  bilge  water,  with  which  the  breeze 
from  the  river  was  laden.  In  short,  it  was  anything  but 
the  pure,  fresh  air  of  heaven,  which  God  gave  as  the  ele- 
ment of  life.  Yet,  on  the  evening  of  which  we  speak,  the 
mellow  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  which,  like  the  earnest  soul, 
are  ever  seeking  something  beautiful  under  the  most  untoward 
appearances,  came  peering  round  corners  and  through  between 
tumbling-down  old  chimneys,  bringing  out  in  strong  relief  the 
grotesque  mouldings  on  the  old  casements  and  cornices,  peep- 


70  LEAVES  FROM  THE  THEE  IQDRASYL. 

ing  beneath  the  crushed-looking  bonnets  of  toilworn  mothers 
returning  from  their  labor,  and  bathing  as  in  a  stream  of 
golden  water  the  heads  of  numberless  little  white-haired 
children,  as  they  rushed  forth  to  meet  their  parents,  or  played 
upon  the  pavement.  One  strong  sunbeam,  like  an  angel  of 
mercy,  had  spied  the  pale  child  in  that  gloomy  door-way, 
and,  creeping  from  roof  to  roof,  at  length  fell  upon  the  dwell- 
ing above  her,  then  sliding  down  slowly  and  silently,  like 
all  sweet,  holy  influences,  rested  upon  her  head,  and  lit  up 
her  meek,  pale  face  with  a  glow  which  was  very  beautiful  to 
behold. 

A  glad  light  sprang  to  her  eyes,  a  faint  smile  broke 
round  her  mouth,  as  she  felt  its.  warmth  upon  her  forehead ; 
for  a  moment  she  watched  the  motes  dancing  in  its  golden 
light ;  then  her  gaze  was  directed,  as  before,  earnestly  up  the 
street.  As  she  sat  thus,  the  pavements  began  to  echo  to  the 
heavier  footsteps  of  men  returning  from  their  work,  and  there 
was  a  confused  murmur  of  tongues,  —  Irish,  English,  French 
and  German.  But  the  loudest-toned  among  them  instinc- 
tively lowered  his  voice  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  child 
sitting  in  the  sunlight,  and  not  a  few  of  those  hard,  care-worn 
faces  greeted  her  with  a  kindly  smile.  One  fat,  motherly- 
looking  Irish  woman  paused  beside  her,  and,  taking  a  small 
bouquet  of  the  commonest  of  garden  flowers  from  among  the 
mass  of  articles  that  crowded  the  basket  on  her  arm,  placed 
it  in  the  child's  hand,  saying : 

"  May  be  ye  would  like  that,  me  darlint." 

"  0,  thank  you,  thank  you !  "  exclaimed  the  child,  raising 
her  eyes,  gushing  with  delighted  surprise.  "  It  is  so  long 
since  I  have  seen  a  flower.  You  are  so  very  kind." 

"  An'  who  would  n't  be  kind  to  ye,  aroon,  wid  the  angel 
looking  out  of  yer  eyes,  so  like  the  one  that  once  slept  on  my 
own  breast,  and  is  now  wid  the  blissed  virgin  in  heaven?" 
said  the  Irish  mother,  crossing  herself,  and  pressing  her  hard 
hand  to  her  bosom  with  a  mournful  gesture,  as  she  passed  on. 


.      LOVE'S    LABOR   NOT    LOST.  71 

To  most  of  my  readers,  whose  lives  have  been  set  round 
and  garlanded  with  those  autographs  of  the  Divinity,  —  the 
blessed  flowers,  —  it  will  be  difficult  to  describe  the  intense 
joj^  the  loving  tenderness,  with  which  that  little  girl  gazed 
on  those  humble  flowers,  and  pressed  them  to  her  lips  and 
eyes ;  or  what  a  chain  of  associations  they  awoke  in  her 
young  mind,  which  reached  from  earth  to  heaven.  It  seemed 
that  these  were  not  all  of  joy,  for  the  glow  of  delight  which 
had  lit  up  her  face  faded  slowly  away,  and  in  its  place  came 
a  look  of  patient  sorrow  —  a  sorrow  that  gave  to  her  features 
the  thoughtfulness  of  mature  years. 

As  she  sat,  thus  busy  with  memory,  a  boy,  of  some  eight 
years,  came  rapidly  down  the  street,  and,  seeing  that  she  did 
not  observe  him,  crept  stealthily  along  in  the  deep  shadow  of 
the  old  walls,  until  he  stood  behind  her  unperceived,  and, 
clapping  his  little  brown  hands  with  delight  as  he  stooped  to 
kiss  her,  exclaimed : 

"  Caught,  fairly  caught  asleep  once,  Susie  !  " 

The  little  girl  smiled,  and,  holding  up  her  flowers,  said  : 

"  See,  Willie,  are  they  not  beautiful  ? " 

Then,  in  reply  to  his  words  of  admiration  and  inquiry,  she 
went  on  to  tell,  out  of  the  gratitude  of  her  heart,  of  the  kind- 
ness of  the  world  in  general,  and  the  fat  Irish  woman  in  par- 
ticular, as  manifested  toward  her ;  then,  returning  to  the 
flowers,  she  said : 

"  Jjook  here,  Willie ;  those  two  and  that  blue  one  are  just 
like  the  flowers  that  grew  in  our  garden  at  Woburn.  Do 
you  remember  the  violets  and  blue  periwinkle  each  side  of  the 
gate,  and  the  clump  of  lilacs  at  the  end  of  the  alley,  and  — 
but  no,  you  were  too  small  when  we  left  to  remember.  Dear 
Woburn ! "  she  added,  sadly,  as  if  touched  by  some  mournful 
recollection.  ^ 

"  Not  the  flowers,  Susie,  though  I  love  them  well  enough  for 
their  own  sakes  as  well  as  for  yours ;  but  I  do  remember  Dr. 
Murdock's  big  dog,  Painter,  and  how  he  used  to  let  me  ride 


72          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

on  his  back.  But  don't  be  sad,  Susie,"  he  continued,  nptic- 
ing  the  shade  on  her  face  with  the  quick  eye  of  affection ; 
"  when  I  get  to  be  a  man,  which  will  be  before  a  thousand 
years,"  and  he  fairly  rose  two  inches  in  his  —  shoes,  we  were 
about  to  say,  but  cannot,  seeing  that  his  feet  were  bare,  —  in 
his  desire  to  convince  her  of  the  speedy  fulfilment  of  his 
words,  "  we  will  have  another  cottage,  just  like  the  one  at 
Woburn,  with  a  garden  and  lots  of  flowers ;  for,  though  I 
don't  remember  much  about  it,  you  can  tell  me,  and  you 
shall  have  a  little  room  to  yourself,  with  plants  in  it  as  big 
as  trees,  if  you  like." 

She  drew  him  down  beside  her,  and,  passing  her  hand  lov- 
ingly over  his  mass  of  brown  hair,  said,  with  a  smile : 

"  You  are  the  best  and  kindest  brother  in  the  whole  world, 
Willie." 

"  And  who  would  n't  be  kind  to  you,  Susie  ?  "  he  replied, 
unconsciously  repeating  the  words  of  the  Irish  mother ;  "  I 
could  not  be  otherwise  if  I  tried.  But  come,  let  us  go  into 
the  house  and  see  mother." 

"  Mother  has  gone  to  carry  home  the  clothes  she  has  been 
washing,"  said  Susie,  as  she  turned  to  reach  behind  her  for 
something  within  the  door. 

"Never  mind,  Susie,"  said  her  brother,  laying  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  "  let  me  be  your  crutch  to-night.  I  will  be  very 
steady,  indeed  I  will." 

She  smiled,  and,  as  he  carefully  assisted  her  to  rise,  it  was 
easy  to  see  why  she,  so  small  and  childish-looking  herself, 
should  have  spoken  to  that  well-developed  boy  of  her  older 
memory. 

Her  face,  with  its  thoughtful  look  of  patient  sorrow,  might 
have  been  taken,  as  it  was,  in  truth,  for  the  face  of  a  girl  of 
twelve  summers,  but  her  lower  limbs  \^re  small  even  to 
deformity,  and  one  hip  much  drawn  from  its  place. 

As  they  turned  from  the  door,  she  cast  another  anxious 


LOVE'S    LABOR   NOT    LOST.  73 

glance  up  the  street,  then  her  eyes  sought  her  brother's  face 
with  a  look  of  sorrowful  inquiry. 

The  boy  understood  the  glance,  for  he  replied,  sadly  : 

"  I  fear  he  will  not  come  to-night,  Susie." 

"  Why  not  ?    Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  He  came  as  far  as  the  corner  of  street  with  me ; 

there  he  met  some  boys,  who  persuaded  him  to  go  into  a  ten- 
pin  alley,"  he  replied,  as  he  slowly  guided  his  sister's  steps 
along  the  gloomy  old  passage  that  led  to  their  room. 

However  mean  and  poor  the  room  which  afforded  shelter  to 
Widow  Danvers  and  her  children,  however  bare  of  even  the 
common  necessaries  of  life,  however  harsh  and  discordant 
the  sounds  which  reached  it  from  the  crowded  rooms  around, 
there  was  that  in  the  hearts  and  on  the  faces  of  those  chil- 
dren, as  they  emerged  from  that  dark  passage,  that  gave  to 
its  atmosphere  a  light  and  a  glory  which  wealth  could  not 
buy. 

Willie  began  to  bring  forth  their  scanty  supper,  meanwhile 
telling  his  sister  all  about  the  great  green  parrot,  whose 
gilded  cage  had  for  several  days  been  hung  from  a  window 
opposite  his  employer's  store  (for  Willie  was  an  errand  boy) ; 
of  its  climbing,  and  whistling,  and  mocking  the  cries  of  the 
newspaper  venders ;  while  occasionally  the  noise  of  Susie's 
crutches  mingled  with  the  chattering  of  their  tongues,  as  she 
assisted  him  in  searching  for  something,  which  they  were  at 
last  forced  to  remember  had  been  all  eaten  at  the  previous 
meal. 

They  had  hardly  finished  placing  and  replacing  the  coarse 
dishes,  with  their  scanty  contents,  upon  the  table,  with  the 
childish  wish  to  make  them  show  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
thus  cheat  themselves  into  a  belief  of  a  sufficiency,  when  their 
mother  entered  from  her  weary  walk. 

By  healthy,  happy"  children,  br6d  in  the  midst  of  plenty 
and  comfort,  she  might  have  been  taken  for  a  spectre,  so  wan 
and  ghostlike  did  she  look,  with  that  strange,  unearthly  light 
•7 


74  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

in  her  large,  dark  eyes.  But  these  children,  familiar  with 
misery,  saw  nothing  in  that  face  but  the  radiance  of  a  moth- 
er's love,  and,  in  her  shortened  respiration  and  the  quick 
'throbbing  of  her  heart,  as  she  pressed  their  young  hands  to 
her  bosom  and  sank  upon  a  chair,  nothing  but  evidences 
of  her  joy  at  seeing  them  again.  True,  little  Susie,  with  her 
premature  development,  born  of  pain  and  sorrow,  had  once 
or  twice  of  late  felt  a  shudder  pass  over  her,  as  if  the  shadow 
of  the  wing  of  the  death-angel  rested  upon  her,  when  she 
looked  in  her  mother's  face  and  noted  her  failing  steps ;  but 
she  had  shrunk  from  it,  and  thrust  it;  away  from  her,  as  if 
such  a  fearful  thought  questioned  the  goodness  of  God. 
Childhood  is  so  slow  to  apprehend  death. 

While  the  weary  mother  listened  to  the  murmuring  voices 
of  the  children,  another  form  emerged  from  the  darkness  of 
the  passage ;  but — whether  its  gloom  still  clung  to  him  fron. 
affinity,  or  whether  it  was  owing  to  the  atmosphere  of  evil 
which  for  many  months  had  been  gathering  round  his  h'eart 
we  cannot  say  —  a  dark  cloud  rested  upon  his  handsome, 
boyish  features,  and  gave  to  them  a  bitter,  disagreeable 
expression.  And  it  seemed  that  neither  the  glad  welcome 
of  the  children,  nor  the  more  gentle  one  of  the  mother,  had 
power  to  chase  it  away ;  for  he  threw  himself  moodily  upon 
a  chair,  and  deigned  no  reply  to  their  kind  and  loving  words. 

"I  fear  you  are  not  well,  to-night,  George,"  said  the 
mother,  approaching  and  laying  her  thin,  bony  fingers  upon 
his  wrist. 

He  drew  his  arm  hastily  away,  saying : 

"  Well !  I  don't  know  what  any  one  should  wish  to  be 
well  for.  •  The  sooner  one  dies  and  is  out  of  the  way  the 
better." 

"  But,  my  dear  child  " — 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  know  all  that  you  would  say,"  he  interrupted, 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  I  know  all  that  cant  about 
God's  wisdom,  and  goodness,  and  providence,  and  discipline. 


LOV1T3    LABOR   NOT    LOST.  75 

and  all  that.  It  is  a  part  of  God's  wisdom,  I  suppose,  that 
allows  one  man  to  cheat  another  out  of  all  he  has,  —  a  part 
of  his  providential  discipline  that  we  and  thousands  like  us 
must  drudge,  drudge  night  and  day,  and  starve  at  that,  —  a 
part  of  his  boasted  goodness,"  he  went  on  bitterly,  casting  a 
glance  at  little  Susie,  "  that  brings  children  into  this  world 
only  to  suffer,  to  drag  through  life  a  burden  to  themselves 
and  others.  Better  die  at  once ;  or,  better  still,  never  to 
have  been  born." 

Little  Susie,  who  had  managed  to  get  close  to  his  side,  and 
lay  her  thin  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  drew  in  her  breath,  as 
if  a  sharp  pain  passed  through  her,  and,  creeping  away, 
seated  herself  in  the  shadow  of  the  door,  for  she  would  not 
that  they  should  see  the  tears  that  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"  A  burden  to  herself  and  others  !  "  God  only  knows  how 
deeply  those  bitter  words  pierced  her  heart.  They  were  not 
new  to  her.  Careless,  thoughtless  people  had  repeated  them 
in  whispers  to  each  other,  as  they  gazed  on  her  wasted  limbs, 
—  whispers  which  she  did  not  fail  to  catch  and  translate  into 
words ;  and  lips,  which  should  have  opened  only  to  bless  and 
pity  her,  had  uttered  them  again  and  again  in  tones  of  quer- 
ulous complaint ;  yet  custom  had  not  dulled  their  point,  or 
taken  from  them  aught  of  their  bitterness.  They  brought 
a  cloud  before  her  eyes  and  heart^so  dark  and  thick,  that  it 
cost  the  child  many  a  weary  struggle  before  she  could  again 
see  and  gather  up  the  scattered  sunbeams  that  came  to 
brighten  even  her  forlorn  way. 


PART     II. 

"  Thank  God,  bless  God,  all  ye  who  suffer  not 
More  grief  than  ye  can  weep  for." 

Susie  Danvers  had  spoken  of  her  early  home  at  "VVoburn, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  life  of  pain  and  poverty  her  hear* 


76  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

guarded  the  memory  of  the  hours  passed  there  like  a  holy 
thing ;  and  since  error  and  sin  had  driven  them  from  its  shel- 
ter, and,  like  the  Angel  of  Wrath  at  the  gates  of  Eden, 
barred  the  entrance,  she  had  bathed  it  in  the  light  of  a  pure 
and  loving  nature,  until, 

"  Of  all  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  in  Memory's  hall," 

this  seemed  dearest,  brightest  and  best. 

Her  father  had  been  the  village  physician,  and,  though  a 
man  of  hasty,  impulsive  disposition,  was  generally  much 
respected  and  beloved.  His  wife's  rich,  genial  nature  was 
like  sunshine  and  dew  to  all  who  came  within  her  influence. 
There  was  one  object  towards  which  she  felt  drawn  with  more 
than  a  woman's  instinctive  fondness.  This  was  to  little 
George,  her  husband's  child  by  a  former  marriage  ;  but,  un- 
fortunately for  both  the  mother  and  the  child,  the  strong 
prejudices  of  his  mother's  family  were  brought  to  bear  against 
her,  and  the  child  at  length  withdrawn  from  her  care  for 
months  together. 

Still,  her  heart  followed  him  with  loving  thoughts,  and 
w.hen  God  filled  up  the  measure  of  her  cup  of  happiness  by 
sending  her  own  little  Susie,  she  did  not  selfishly  forget  the 
motherless  boy,  but  her  thoughts  turned  to  him  with  even 
more  tenderness  than  before ;  and  the  first  word  the  little 
girl  was  taught  to  utter  was  the  name  of  her  brother.  During 
the  short  visits  which  he  made  at  his  father's  house,  the  boy 
could  not,  in  spite  of  the  power  of  prejudice,  resist  her  gentle 
influence ;  and,  as  he  listened  to  her  sweet  tones,  and  looked 
into  her  soft,  dark  eyes,  his  thoughts  grew  troubled,  and  he 
wondered  how  it  could  be  that  one  so  kind  and  gentle  should 
be  so  thoroughly  selfish  as  he  had  been  taught  to  believe  her. 
The  longest  of  these  visits  was  made  just  at  the  time  when 
little  Susie  was  recovering  from  the  terrible  illness  that  had 
left  her  a  cripple  for  'life.  The  little  girl  was  delighted  with 
his  company ;  besides,  she  was  BO  gentle  and  patient  in  her 


LOVE'S    LABOK    NOT    LOST.  77 

s,  that  he  could  not  help  feeling  drawn  towards 
hxf,  and  he  soon  cast  off  his  rough  habits,  and  learned  to 
speak  softly  and  step  lightly  as  his  mother  herself;  and  when 
she  was,  at  length,  permitted  to  go  out  in  her  little  carriage, 
and  he  saw  her  wholly  committed  to  his  care,  he  was  delighted 
with  the  responsibility.  He  felt  that  he  was  trusted  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life ;  for  the  cold,  suspicious  temper  of  his 
aunts,  and  their  harsh  judgments,  were  ill  calculated  to  foster 
in  the  mind  of  childhood  either  confidence  or  self-respect ;  and 
not  unfrequently,  in  after  years,  when  yielding  to  the  evil  in- 
fluences around  him,  his  heart  recalled  these  brief  weeks  of 
his  childhood  with  bitter  regret.  When  Susie  was  about  eight 
years  old,  Dr.  Danvers  became  security  for  a  distant  relative 
of  his  wife,  to  the  amount  of  several  thousand  dollars.  This 
person  soon  became  a  bankrupt,  and  involved  the  doctor  in  his 
ruin.  This  unfortunate  affair  filled  up  the  measure  of  Mrs. 
Danvers'  unpopularity  with  his  first  wife's 'relations;  for, 
though  she  had  not  failed  to  remonstrate  gently  and  calmly 
with  her  husband,  at  the  time,  on  the  propriety  of  thus  risking 
his  all,  the  whole  blame  of  the  affair  was  thrown  upon  her, 
chiefly  because  she  refused  to  join  in  the  bitter  reproaches 
with  which  they  chafed  his  impatient,  irritable  spirit.  Though 
intelligent,  genial  and  generous,  Dr.  Danvers  possessed  but 
little  independence  of  character.  He  lacked  energy  to  meet 
his  difficulties,  and  the  moral  courage  to  face  his  changed  cir- 
cumstances. He  was  one  of  those  natures  "  too  proud  to 
dig,  and  ashamed  to  beg ;  "  therefore,  notwithstanding  the 
words  of  cheer  and  encouragement  he  received  from  his  wife, 
he  soon  yielded  to  despair.  Well  would  it  have  been  if  this 
had  been  all !  But,  like  many  another  proud,  disappointed 
man,  he  sought  forgetfulness  in  the  wine-cup,  and  in  a  short 
time  all  traces  of  the  generous  spirit  of  his  youth  were 
effaced  by  the  rapid  encroachment  of  the  demon  intem- 
perance. 

Supported  by  strength  which '  cometh  not  from  earthly  aid, 
7* 


78  LEAVES  FROM  THK  TREE  IGDRA3YL. 

his  gentle  wife  saw  the  sure  but  gradual  ruin  of  her  dearest 
earthly  hopes ;  saw  the  quiet  home  in  which  her  nature  had 
passed  by  such  pleasant  steps  from  timid,  bashful  girlhood 
into  the  full  life  of  ripened  womanhood,  pass  into  the  hands  of 
strangers;  and  with  her  husband, — whose  temper  grew  more 
and  more  irritable  and  exacting  as  his  health  yielded  to  his 
evil  habits,  —  and  her  children,  found  refuge  in  the  crowded 
purlieus  of  the  city.  We  have  said  "  children,"  for,  soon  after 
the  failure,  the  marriage  of  one  aunt  and  the  death  of 
another  had  consigned  George  again  to  his  father's  care,  and, 
some  four  years  previously,  little  Willie  had  been  added  to 
their  joys  and  cares. 

George's  character  was  much  more  marked  and  decided, 
even  at  that  early  age,  than  his  father's.  .His  passions  and 
prejudices  were  very  strong,  and  the  course  of  training  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  in  his  grandmother's  house  had 
not  tended  to  Restrain  them^while  it  had  succeeded  in  tinging 
all  that  was  genial  and  generous  in  his  nature  with  distrust 
and  suspicion.  He  had  been  taught  to  recognize  the  law  of 
Fear,  but  not  of  Love.  His  own  property,  inherited  from  his 
mother,  had  been  lost  in  the  general  wreck ;  and  so  deeply 
had  it  been  instilled  into  him  that  this  loss  was  in  some  way 
the  result  of  his  father's  second  marriage,  that  the  spirit  in 
which  he  returned  to  share  their  poverty  was  little  calculated 
to  add  to  the  peace  or  comfort  of  the  ruined  household.  The 
selfishness  of  the  father  —  who,  in  his  degradation,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  indulge  his  own  appetite^  at  the  expense  of  his  family  — 
and  his  fretful,  unreasonable  temper,  chafed  and  embittered 
the  quick,  impetuous  spirit  of  the  boy  to  such  a  degree,  thai 
anger  and  contention  were  soon  added  to  the  many  miseries 
of  their  miserable  home.  Notwithstanding  his  strong  preju- 
dice, the  boy  had  not  been  with  them  many  weeks,  before  he 
felt  compelled  to  admire  the  unwearied  patience  and  goodness 
of  his  mother ;  yet,  instead  of  being  drawn  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample, his  feeling  of  admiration  often  changed  into  ore  of 


LOVE'S   LABOR   NOT   LOST.  79 

angry  contempt  that  she  could  so  tamely  submit  to  the  impe- 
rious, unreasonable  exactions  of  his  father.  At  such  times, 
with  a  recklessness  strange  to  himself,  he  would  join  his  father 
in  ridiculing  her  unshaken  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God  ;  and 
the  infirmities  of  little  Susie  formed  a  never-failing  illustra- 
tion on  this  point ;  for  so  rapidly  had  the  demon  gained  upon 
the  man,  that  the  father  had  already  learned  to  look  upon  his 
suffering  child  as  a  burden  and  a  trouble, —  a  care  that  de- 
prived him  of  the  undivided  attention  of  his  wife,  and  an 
expense  that  curtailed  him  in  many  of  the  indulgences  of  his 
former  life,  which,  in  his  utter  selfishness,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  exact  from  the  labor  of  his  wife  and  children.  In  his  in- 
most heart  the  boy  often  bitterly  regretted  yielding  to  this 
dark  spirit ;  and,  though  he  was  too  proud  to  manifest  it  in 
words,  he  would  often  take  up  the  little  girl  on  his  knee,  and, 
while  bending  his  head  to  meet  her  caresses,  talk  to  her  of 
their  early  days  at  Woburn,  until  her  pale  face  grew  radiant 
with  delight.  But  beyond  the  walls  of  that  humble  room  he 
found  little  to  strengthen  these  faint  struggles  of  the  better 
spirit  within  him,  but  much  —  0,  how  much  !  —  to  tempt  him 
On  to  sin  and  crime.  Soon  after  their  arrival  in  the  city,  his 
father  had  apprenticed  him  to  a  shoemaker,  in  spite  of  his 
strong  repugnance  to  the  occupation,  and  earnest  entreaties  to 
be  permitted  to  seek  some  other  mode  of  living.  At  the 
time  of  his  father's  death,  which  happened  some  two  years 
after,  he  left  his  employer,  and,  joining  a  gang  of  reckless 
boys  like  himself,  subsisted,  his  mother  knew  not  how,  for 
his  visits  home  grew  more  and  more  rare,  and  his  mood  more 
and  more  impatient  and  irritable.  Even  the  kind  greetings 
and  loving  words  which  ever  awaited  him  in  that  humble 
home  seemed  a  reproach  to  the  unhappy  boy,  and  sometimes 
he  would  cease  to  visit  them  for  months. 

It  would  seem  strange  to  one  unacquainted  with  the  myste- 
ries of  the  human  heart,  that  deep,  unswerving  love  of  little 
Susie  Danvers  for  this  erring  brother ;  but  sometimes  —  and 


SO  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TEEB  IUDRA3YL. 

many  of  us  have  reason  to  thank  God  it  is  so  —  the  foibles 
faults,  ay,  even  the  sins  of  those  dear  to  us,  draw  from  us  a 
tJouble  share  of  that  love  they  so  much  need.  And  so  it  was 
that  this  moody,  wayward  brother  seemed  to  possess  even  a 
stronger,  tenderer  claim  upon  her  heart  than  the  joyous 
Willie. 

George  had  early  manifested  a  passionate  love  of  music,  and 
possessed  a  voice  of  rare  purity  and  compass.  During  his 
visits  at  Woburn  he  beguiled  many  of  her  slow  hours  of 
suffering  with  his  endless  songs,  and  took  great  pleasure  in 
teaching  her  to  accompany  him.  To  the  gay  and  happy, 
music  is  a  resource,  an  accomplishment,  a  pleasant  amuse- 
ment; but  to  the  poor  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  God's 
blessings  —  the  true  Lethe  of  their  existence,  in  which  they 
can  forget  for  a  few  brief  hours  all  the  troubles  that  beset 
them.  At  least  so  thought  Susie  Danvers,  and  so  thought, 
in  all  probability,  the  white-haired,  stooping-shouldered  old 
German,  who  lived  in  a  gloomy-looking  house  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  square.  What  was  poverty  to  him,  when,  as 
evening  drew  on,  he  exchanged  the  implements  of  toil  for 
his  beloved  violin,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  open  window, 
poured  forth  -the  glorious  strains  of  the  masters  of.  his 
native  land ! 

Ah !  the  song  of  Orpheus  is  no  fable,  as  that  old  man  well 
knew,  for  the  time-stained  walls  of  his  dwelling  slowly  re- 
ceded, and  the  magio  tones  led  him  gently  back  on  the  track 
of  his  youth,  until  he  sat  once  more  beneath  the  vine-covered 
trellises  of  Andernach,  with  the  soft  eyes  of  his  Gretchen 
looking  into  his,  while  her  sweet  voice  blended  with  that  of 
his  beloved  Cremona,  —  gentle  eyes,  upon  which  the  green  sod 
ia  the  quiet  church-yard  of  Altenkirchen  had  pressed  for  so 
many  years  !  And  that,  too,  was  a  pleasant  thought,  and 
there  was  wisdom  and  piety  in  it,  which  led  the  old  man, 
when  his  troop  of  flaxen-haired  grandchildren  gathered  about 
his  knees,  and  mingled  their  young  voices  with  his,  to  play 


LOVE'S   LABOR   NOT    LOST.  81 

those  songs  which  she  had  loved  best ;  for  he  felt  that  her 
voice,  though  ^indistinguishable  to  mortal  ears,  did  not  fail  to 
accompany  them.  We  hear  much  about  evil  being  contagious ; 
but  we  belive  good  is  not  the  less  so ;  for  the  happiness  of  that 
poor  German  family,  their  strong  affection  for  each  other, 
bursting  forth  at  eve  in  rich  melodies,  seemed  to  breathe  a 
benediction  upon  that  miserable  neighborhood ;  and  to  no  one 
heart  did  it  bring  such  a  wealth  of  blessing  as  to  that  of  the 
suffering  Susie  Danvers. 

"  Let  me  sit  longer,  dear  mother — the  music  eases  .nis  wea- 
risome pain  in  my  hip,"  she  was  accustomed  to  say,  when  her 
mother  spoke  to  her  of  the  necessity  of  retiring ;  and  thus 
night  after  night  found  her  seated  in  the  old  door-way,  watch- 
ing the  happy  faces  of  the  children,  as  they  clustered  around 
the  old  man's  chair,  by  the  open  window,  until  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness  she  could  not  distinguish  one  face  from  another, 
and  catching  with  her  quick,  unerring  ear  every  note  of  their 
music,  until  the  glorious  strains  of  Beethoven,  Handel,  and 
Bach,  were  as  familiar  to  her  as  her  cradle  hymns.  Presently 
she  began  to  accompany  them,  but  very  lowly,  fearing,  in  her 
timidity  and  bashfulness,  that  they  would  be  offended  at  her 
presumption,  should  they  hear  her.  And  this  new  pleasure 
brought  another,  that  helped  to  while  away  the  wearisome 
pain  in  her  limbs  — the  thought  of  George's  surprise  and 
pleasure  when  he  became  aware  of  her  progress;  and  0, 
how  anxiously,  how  impatiently,  did  she  watch  for  him  to 
come  home !  for  somehow  she  had  got  the  impression  that  she 
could  win  him  to  remain  there,  with  those  glorious  strains. 

Once,  in  the  interval  of  many  weeks,  he  had  made  his 
appearance  among  them,  but  so  irritable  and  moody  that  she 
did  not  even. dare  to  mention  to  him  her  unconscious  teachers, 
the  Germans ;  but,  after  his  departure,  she  reproached  herself 
bitterly  for  her  cowardice,  thinking  that  she  might  have 
wronged  him  —  that  perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  not  so  ill 
humored  as  he  seemed ;  and  if  she  had  only  struck  a  few 


82  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRA3YL. 

notes  of  one  of  Beethoven's  symphonies,  she  might  have 
completely  exorcised  the  evil  spirit. 

In  the  light  of  this  hope  she  had  watched  for  him  on  the 
evening  of  which  we  have  spoken.  We  have  seen  their  meet- 
ing. We  know  how  those  bitter  words,  "  a  burden  to  herself 
and  others,"  had  darkened  that  light,  and  how  she  shrunlf 
away  in  the  darkness,  with  all  the  old  pain  in  her  limbs  and 
heart,  fearful  that  even  her  tears  would  reproach  him. 


PART     III. 

"And  all  voices  that  address  her, 
Soften,  sleeken,  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

,         And  all  hearts  do  pray,  '  God  love  her ! ' 
Ay,  and  certes,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  HE  DOTH." 

"  Sorrow,  tliere  seemeth  more  of  thee  in  life 
Than  we  can  bear  and  live." 

And  yet  Widow  Danvers  did  live,  though  God  alone  knows 
the  crushing  weight  of  the  blow,  when  strange  hands  brought 
in  her  bright-eyed  little  Willie,  and  laid"  him  down  before  her, 
a  mangled  corpse.  And  poor  little  Susie  —  it  seemed  as  if 
that  heavy  wall,  in  crushing  him,  had  stunned  her  also,  so 
mute  and  motionless  did  she  sit  gazing  for  hours  upon  the 
dead  child's  face.  Then  there  were  heavy  footsteps  in  that 
dark  passage,  and  the  children  of  the  neighborhood  hung 
round  the  door,  and  gazed  shyly  and  curiously  at  the  little 
rough  coffin  that  was  borne  away  to  the  Potter's  Field,  and 
placed  beneath  its  scanty  covering  of  earth.  And  well  it 
was  that  Susie's  lameness,  and  the  mother's  failing  strength, 
prevented  them  following  to  his  grave ;  for  thus  they  were 
happily  snared  a  knowledge  of  the  revolting  features  of  the 
crowde.i  burial-places  of  the  poor.  And  when  they  thought 
of  little  Willie's  grave,  memory  recalled  the  green  grave-yard 


LOVE'S   LABOR   NOT   LOST.  83 

of  Woburn,  with  its  flower-starred  turf  and  mossy  wall,  and 
it  comforted  their  hearts  to  think  that  he  slept  in  some  such 
quiet  place.  This  thought  of  her  boy's  last  home  grew  very 
dear  to  the  widow's  heart,  in  proportion  as  the  love  which  she 
had  borne  him  seemed  to  be  drawing  her  slowly  and  surely  to 
lie  down  by  his  side.  Of  her  dead  child  she  could  truly  say, 
"  It  is  well ! "  but  of  the  living,  —  the  suffering  and  the 
erring,  —  there  came  hours  in  which  even  her  strong  faith  in 
God  was  not  sufficient  to  face  the  thought  of  leaving  them ; 
hours  which  we  will  not  attempt  to  describe,  for  none  but  a 
mother's  heart  could  sound  their  depths  of  misery.  But  as 
her  footsteps  drew  nearer  and  nearer  the  spirit-land,  a  ray  of 
its  blessed  light  seemed  to  fall  upon  her  troubled  heart,  and 
hush  it  to  rest.  An  orphan  herself,  she  had  no  relations 
nearer  than  cousins ;  to  these  she  wrote,  confiding  both  her 
children  to  their  care,  and,  relying  much  upon  the  promise  of 
the  kind  Irishwoman  (who,  won  by  little  Susie's  resemblance 
to  her  lost  darling,  had  sought  them  out,  and  proved  her 
friendship  by  many  a  self-denying  deed),  that  the  little  girl 
should  not  suffer  as  long  as  a  crust  or  a  potato  was  to  be 
shared  in  her  own  family,  she  laid  aside  the  needle,  which  her 
trembling  fingers  could  no  longer  hold,  and  awaited  her  re- 
lease. One  thought  only  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  mind  — 
George  and  his  future  fate.  Months  had  elapsed  since  his 
footsteps  had  crossed  their  threshold,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
hope  of  seeing  him  once  more  had  kept  alive  the  flickering 
flame  of  life  through  the  dreary  days  of  winter.  But  day 
after  day  passed,  and  she  could  only  watch  and  pray.  She 
knew  not  that  through  her  death  he  was  to  be  quickened  into 
spiritual  life. 

"  Susie,"  said  the  mother,  one  night,  after  refusing  a  neigh- 
bor's offer  to  pass  the  night  by  her,  "  draw  aside  that  curtain, 
dear,  and  let  the  moonlight  into  the  room.  It  seems  as  if 
there  had  been  neither  moonlight  nor  sunlight  in  this  dreary 
city,  and  I  would  fain  look  on  it  once  more,"  . 


84  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Mother  !  "  said  the  child,  anxiously. 

"  Don 't  be  anxious,  my  child.  I  feel  no  worse  to-night, 
and  I  did  wrong  to  speak  in  that  impatient  tone ;  but  I  was 
thinking  of  the  moonlight  at  Woburn.  Help  me  to  move 
my  pillow  a  little,  darling,  and  then  sing.  It  will,  as  you 
often  say,  ease  this  wearisome  pain  in  my  side." 

The  child  arranged  the  pillows,  and  was  about  to  place  her 
stool  close  by  her  mother's  side,  when  the  latter,  pointing  to  a 
spot  where  the  moonlight  slept  on  the  floor,  said, 

"  Not  here,  my  child,  but  in  the  moonlight  yonder.  I  can 
see  your  face  better  there." 

Susie  obeyed,  and,  with  her  bird-like  tones,  subdued  and 
deepened  by  emotion,  began  Schubert's  "Ave  Maria."  As 
those  plaintive  notes,  so  full  of  tearful,  earnest  entreaty,  fell 
upon  the  mother's  heart,  she  cast  one  long,  loving  glance  at 
the  childish  figure  sitting  in  the  moonlight;  then,  closing  her 
eyes  as  if  in  sleep,  her  soul  passed  with  that  beautiful  melody 
from  earth  to  heaven. 

But  the  child  knew  it  not.  The  narrow  strip  of  moonlight 
crept  stealthily  nearer  and  nearer  the  wall,  as  if  conscious  of 
the  presence  of  the  shadowy  terror  there  ;  but  the  singer  still 
continued  to  breathe  forth  those  touching  notes  of  supplication 
for  that  aid  and  protection  she  now  so  much  needed.  The 
moonlight  stole  quite  away,  and  in  the  gathering  darkness  she 
did  not  see  the  boyish  figure  that  stood  in  that  dark  old  door- 
way, nor  the  expression  of  delighted  surprise  that  lit  up  his 
face  as  he  listened  to  her  tones.  She  did  not  hear  his  low 
step  as  he  stole  across  the  floor,  nor  see  the  startled  look  of 
horror  and  remorse  that  crossed  his  face,  as  the  pale,  ghastly 
features  of  his  mother  met  his  gaze.  But  his  exclamation  of 
surprise  aroused  her,  and  she  drew  near  to  his  side. 

"  0 !  mother,  mother !  "  he  groaned,  taking  the  child's  hand 
in  his,  and  laying  it  upon  that  pale,  cold  forehead.  That 
fearful  chill  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  seemed  to  strike  to 
the  child's  heart.  She  sunk  down  by  her  brother's  side,  and, 


LOVE'S   LABOR   NOT   LOST.  85 

forgetting  everything  but  her  need  of  love  hid  her  face  in  his 
bosom.  He  drew  her  closely  to  him,  while  he  repeated,  in  that 
same  broken  tone,  "  0  !  mother,  mother,  have  I  killed  you  at 
last?" 

"  She  blessed  you  —  only  a  few  moments  since  she  blessed 
you,  George,  and  bade  me  say  that,  if  she  had  failed  to  make 
you  feel  how  truly  she  had  loved  you,  as  she  feared  she  had, 
you  must  forgive  her,"  said  Susie,  raising  her  head  from  its 
new-found  resting-place. 

Again  that  smothered  cry,  "  0  !  mSther,  mother !  "  so  full 
of  anguish  and  remorse,  burst  from  the  boy's  lips,  while  the 
child  went  on,  in  a  voice  broken  and  full  of  tears : 

"  And  she  told  me  not  to  grieve  too  bitterly,  if  I  was  left 
alone,  dear  George  ;  for  that  you  would  come  back,  and  love 
me,  even  as  she  had  loved  me ;  that  you  would  be  mother 
and  brother  to  me." 

"And,  by  the  help  of  God,  I  will!"  exclaimed  the  boy, 
earnestly.  "  Mother*  I  promise  !  "  he  continued,  rising  to  his 
feet,  and  kissing  the  high,  pale  forehead  of  the  dead. 

Through  the  long  watches  of  that  night  the  overwearied 
Susie  slept  calmly  near  her  dead  mother's  side,  while  George 
sat  by,  nursing  high  resolves  and  earnest  purposes ;  resolves 
and  purposes  which  he  carried  out,  not  without  many  a  severe 
struggle,  and  now  and  then  a  fall ;  for  the  power  of  tempta- 
tion from  without  and  within  was  very  strong.  But  an  angel, 
in  the  shape  of  a  feeble  child,  with  soft,  clear  eyes,  and  a 
glorious  voice,  walked  ever  before  him  on  the  upward  path, 
and  drew  him  after,  by  the  strong  cords  of  love,  until,  in 
spite  of  the  weakness  of  his  own  heart  and  the  sneers  of  his 
old  companions  in  evil,  he  triumphed.  The  kind  voices  of  his 
neighbors  bade  him  "  God-speed,"  for  his  mother's  sake,  and 
not  a  few  hard,  toil-worn  hands  were  put  forth  to  aid  both 
him  and  Susie.  Among  these  none  were  more  true  and 
friendly  than  those  of  old  Heinrich  Miiller  and  his  family,  to 
whom  they  had  been  made  known  through  the  watchful  kind- 
8 


00  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IGDBASYL. 

ness  and  unwearied  tongue  of  their  Irish  friend,  Biddy 
McGee.  Their  voices  were  a  sufficient  passport  to  the  old 
man's  favor,  aside  from  their  story  ;  but  when  George  told 
them,  without  disguise,  all  his  past  career  of  error  and  sin 
they  did  not  turn  away  from  him,  but  all  heartily  assented  to 
the  white-haired  grandfather's  remark,  "  If  he  has  sinned,  my 
children,  then  there  is  so  much  the  more  reason  why  we  should 
treat  him  with  kindness."  Through  their  exertions,  George 
found  a  place  much  to  his  mind  in  a  large  piano  manufac- 
tory ;  and,  as  for  little  Susie,  she  soon  made  herself  a  home 
in  their  hearts,  and  became  completely  domiciled  beneath  their 
roof. 

"  Why  speak  of  das  Geld,  my  son?"  the  good  mother  Lott- 
chen  was  accustomed  to  say,  whenever  George  laid  before  her 
his  scanty  earnings.  "  Is  not  her  gentle  temper,  and  the  sight 
of  her  sweet,  calm  face,  worth  more  than  ten  dollars  a  week 
to  a  laboring  woman  like  me,  troubled  with  many  things  ? 
Look  at  her,  yonder  ;  see  how  quiet  and  good  the  little  ones 
are  when  with  her." 

Several  years  have  passed,  and  few  who  read  our  story 
would  recognize,  in  the  junior  partner  of  the  fashionable  music- 
store  of  Messrs. and  Co.,  Broadway,  New  York,  the 

reckless   George   Danvers,   the   "gallows-bird,"   as   his   old 
master,  the  shoemaker,  was  wont  to  term  him. 

But,  should  they  manifest  anything  like  a  true  love  of 
music,  he  might,  in  his  enthusiasm,  lead  them  to  the  neat 
parlor  adjoining  the  store,  and,  in  the  slight,  fragile  figure, 
and  clear,  spiritueUe  eyes  of  her  who  wakes  such  a  world  of 
melody  from  the  piano  before  her,  they  might  recognize  many 
traces  of  the  deformed  child  who  was  wont  to  sit  in  that 
gloomy  door-way ;  and  in  the  tenderness  with  which  the 
brother  hangs  over  her  and  watches  her  every  movement,  they 
will  find  the  surest  proof  that  she,  who  was  "  born  to  be  only 
a  burden  to  herself  and  others,"  has,  through  the  power  of 
love,  grown  to  be  the  richest  blessing  of  his  life. 


MMHS  «urr 


A  TALE  OF  THE  COLONY  TIMES. 

"  In  the  good  old  Colony  times, 
When  we  lived  under  the  King." 

CHAPTER     I. 

EVEN  to  this  day  the  inhabitants  of  New  England  seldom 
speak  of  the  tyrannical  measures  of  the  British  government 
toward  the  colonies,  during  the  reign  of  George  III.,  with- 
out some  show  of  indignation.  Yet  any  one  familiar  with 
their  history  cannot  fail  to  see  that,  under  the  preceding 
reigns,  they  had  often  suffered  from  far  greater  wrongs  than 
those  illegal  taxes  that  struck  the  key-note  to  the  revolution. 

This  was  especially  true  of  New  Hampshire,  under  the 
first  royal  governors.  Mason,  the  grandson  of  the  famous 
Captain  John,  of  Pequod  memory,  had,  in  asserting  his 
claims  to  his  grandfather's  grant,  succeeded  in  separating  the 
colony  from  Massachusetts,  under  whose  jurisdiction  the 
first  settlement  had  been  made.  In  this  he  was  aided  by  his 
relative,  Edward  Randolph,  that  "  blasted  wretch,"  as  one 
of  our  old  historians  terms  him,  who  crossed  the  Atlantic  no 
less  than  eight  times  in  nine  years,  in  his  indefatigable  zeal 
to  procure  the  downfall  of  our  charter  government,  in  which 
mischievous  errand  he  but  too  well  succeeded. 

A  President  and  Council  were  appointed,  by  his  Majesty 
Charles  II.,  for  the  government  of  the  province;  and,  as  the 
separation  had  been  in  direct  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  the 
people,  he  shrewdly  nominated  several  of  the  most  distin- 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASTL. 

• 

guished  gentlemen  in  the  colony  to  the  first  Council.  They 
were  men  who  had  held  high  offices,  both  civil  and  military, 
under  the  colonial  government,  and  nothing  but  the  unavoid- 
able necessity  of  submitting  to  this  change,  and  the  fear  that, 
in  case  of  theii  refusal,  others,  less  true  to  the  interests  of 
the  people,  would  be  substituted,  induced  them  to  accept  the 
nomination.  Their  acceptance  was  a  sore  disappointment  to 
Mason  and  his  coadjutors.  After  striving  for  some  months 
to  intimidate  or  cajole  them  into  furthering  their  selfish  and 
ambitious  ends,  Mason  returned  to  England,  where  he  so 
completely  gained  the  ear  of  the  voluptuous  monarch,  that 
the  form  of 'government  was  once  more  changed,  and  Edward 
Cranfield  appointed  royal  governor. 

His  commission,  which  bears  the  date  of  May  9th,  1681, 
gave  him  almost  absolute  power,  and  he  was  a  man  little  cal- 
culated, either  by  nature  or  education,  to  neglect  any  of  the 
prerogatives  of  his  office.  A  stanch  royalist,  a  devoted  ad- 
herent to  the  forms  of  the  established  church,  he  had  little 
sympathy  with  the  thoughts,  ends  and  aims,  of  that  singular 
people  whom  he  came  to  govern,  and  his  strong  prejudices 
and  arrogant  manners  were  ill  calculated  to  win  either  their 
love  or  respect. 

He  was  empowered  to  appoint  all  general  officers,  and  to 
suspend  such  members  of  the  Council  as  gave  him  just  cause 
of  offence,  they  being,  at  the  same  time,  declared  not  eligible 
to  the  General  Assembly,  the  only  body  elected  by  the  people. 
It  was  not  long,  therefore,  before  he  saw  himself  supported 
by  a  Council  wholly  subservient  to  his  will. 

But  the  members  of  the  Assembly  were  sternly  true  to 
their  trust ;  and,  convoking  them  twice,  and  finding  them  as 
resolute  and  firm  in  maintaining  their  rights  as  had  been 
their  sires  and  brothers  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  like  that 
unhappy  monarch,  at  whose  court  his  early  youth  had  been 
spent,  and  whom  he  seemed  to  take  for  his  model,  he  sud- 
denly dismissed  them,  and,  with  his  Council,  assumed  the 


A    TALE   OF    THE   COLONY    TIMES.  89 

whole  of  the  legislative  power,  taxing  the  people  without 
their  consent,  and  fining  and  imprisoning  such  as  dared  to 
complain  of  injustice. 

This  tyrannical  conduct  bore  heavily  upon  the  inhabitants 
of  Portsmouth  and  its  vicinity.  Fifty  years  had  elapsed 
since  the  so-called  company  of  "  Laconia,"  headed  by  Mason 
and  Gorges,  had  raised  the  first  rude  hut  »ear  the  mouth  of 
the  pleasant  Piscataqua,  yet  the  inhabitants  had  lost  none  of 
the  peculiar  traits  that  distinguished  the  puritan  character. 
Their  patient  perseverance,  their  quaint  garb  and  godly 
modes  of  speech,  and  their  unshaken  confidence  in  an  over- 
ruling Providence  and  his  blessing  on  their  cause,  were 
worthy  even  of  the  "  Mayflower." 

Indeed,  there  were  still  living  in  their  midst  gray-headed 
old  men,  who  remembered  well  the  falling  of  the  first  tree, 
and  the  site  of  the  first  hut ;  men  who  could  tell  fearful  tales 
of  the  wanderings  of  the  company  through  the  pathless 
forest  in  search  of  the  gleaming  river,  and  who  remembered, 
also,  that  discreet  and  godly  man,  Francis  Williams,  the 
first  colonial  governor,  and  did  not  fail  to  contrast,  in  no 
silken  phrases,  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  the  royal  gov- 
ernor with  his  wise  and  just  measures. 

But,  ardent  as  was  their  love  of  liberty,  and  keenly  as 
they  felt  every  new  aggression  upon  their  rights,  they  kept 
the  law  ever  upon  their  side.  In  spite  of  imprisonment,  they 
remonstrated  firmly  and  respectfully  with  their  rulers ;  but 
there  was  no  open  outbreak  —  no  popular  riot ;  for  Puritan- 
ism had  little  sympathy  with  mobs.  But  their  prayers  were 
marked  with  greater  earnestness,  and,  perhaps,  duration,  and 
there  was  a  general  tendency  to  wait  and  see  what  the  Lord 
would  do  for  them  in  the  matter. 

But,  when  the  governor  began  to  attack  and  suppress  their 
religious  liberties,  one  deep,  indignant  throb  passed  through 
the  heart  of  the  whole  people.     But  the  rulers  heeded  it  not, 
and  soon  came  an  order  requiring  them,  on  pain  of  his  Maj 
8* 


90  LEAVES   FROM    TIIE   TREK    1GDRASYL. 

esty's  displeasure,  to  abstain  from  all  manual  labor  on  the 
approaching  Christmas,  and  to  observe  the  fasts  of  the  estab- 
lished church.  Silent,  but  strong,  —  resistless  as  the  mighty 
under-current  of  the  ocean,  swelled  the  spirit  of  opposition 
in  every  heart,  and  many  an  old  veteran  of  the  common- 
wealth and  the  Indian  wars  glanced  grimly  at  his  brightly- 
polished  musket,  with  the  thougkt  that  he  was  not  yet  too 
old  to  strike  a  blow  for  freedom. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs,  and  such  the  feeling  with 
which  the  colonists  greeted  the  Christmas  of  1684.  For 
several  weeks  the  snow  had  laift  deep  on  the  earth,  and  the 
well-trodden  paths  had  grown  hard  and  smooth  as  marble.  It 
had  been  a  prosperous  and  busy  season  with  the  people,  both 
on  the  land  and  sea,  and,  had  there  not  been  a  principle  at 
stake,  they  could  well  have  afforded  to  rest  one  day  at  the 
call  of  their  chief  magistrate.  But  to  them  it  seemed  a  con- 
cession to  Anti-Christ  —  a  crossing  of  hands  with  the  woman 
clothed  in  scarlet ;  and  more  than  one  face  was  turned  anx- 
iously towards  the  heavens  on  Christmas  eve,  not  to  seek  for 
the  star  in  the  east,  but  to  watch  the  progress  of  a  storm  of 
sleet  and  rain  which  had  set  in,  and  which  they  felt  might, 
if  it  continued,  compel  them  to  yield,  in  appearance,  at  least, 
to  the  governor's  mandate.  But,  as  if  in  answer  to  their 
prayers,  the  morning  broke  clear,  serene  and  cold.  Long  be- 
fore the  low,  continuous  dropping  from  the  ice-bound  trees 
and  shrubs  attested  the  power  of  the  sun,  their  farm-yards 
were  full  of  the  shows  of  life  and  labor.  The  measured  beat 
of  the  flail  and  the  flax-brake,  the  ringing  stroke  of  the  axe 
at  the  wood-pile,  keeping  time  with  those  in  the  woods, 
echoed  far  and  wide  through  the  clear  air,  while  the  long 
teams  of  oxen,  attached  to  the  clumsy  sleds  that  passed  the 
governor's  mansion,  and  the  quick,  determined  tones  of  the 
drivers,  might  have  taught  one  even  less  versed  in  the  knowl 
edge  of  men  and  things  than  Governor  Cranfield,  something 
of  the  spirit  of  the  people  with  whom  he  had  to  deal. 


A   TALE   OF   THE   COLONY   TIMES.  91 

Mason  and  Randolph  were  both  guests  at  the  governor's 
mansion  at  that  time  —  the  latter  holding  the  office  of  col- 
lector, surveyor  and  searcher  of  the  customs  throughout  New 
England,  in  which  capacity  his  arbitrary  proceedings  excited 
universal  contempt  and  distrust. 

Whatever  the  governor  might  have  felt  at  the  utter  con- 
tempt with  which  his  commands  were  treated,  he  was  too 
much  of  a  courtier  to  disturb  the  festivities  of  the  day  by 
any  display  of  his  chagrin.  He  therefore  listened  to  the  in- 
dignant remarks  of  his  guests,  and  the  somewhat  cutting 
jests  of  Randolph,  with  an  air  of  moderation,  though  the  lat- 
ter was  too  well  read  in  the  human  heart,  not  to  perceive 
that  his  end  was  gained,  that  this  assumed  tone  of  modera- 
tion was  but  the  prelude  to  stronger  and  more  stringent 
measures  towards  a  people  whom  he  both  despised  and  hated. 

The  great  dining-room  of  the  governor's  mansion,  or  Prov- 
ince House,  as  it  was  sometimes  termed,  presented  a  gay 
and  brilliant  scene  on  that  same  Christmas  day ;  and,  could 
those  old  Puritans  have  caught  one  glimpse,  from  under 
their  steeple'-crowned  hats,  of  the  rich  festoons  of  evergreens 
which  decked  the  walls  (a  custom  held  in'  utter  abhorrence 
by  them,  as  savoring  strongly  of  the  idolatry  that  caused 
Israel  to  sin  under  every  green  tree),  and  the  noble  ladies 
and  gay  cavaliers  who,  in  the  rich  costume  of  the  day, 
thronged  the  dinner-table  —  could  they  have  listened,  but 
for  one  moment,  to  the  light  jests,  the  courtly  phrases,  the 
flippant  witticisms  and  ridiculous  caricatures  of  their  own 
speech  and  manners  —  they  might  have  had  some  reasonable 
doubt,  especially  after  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  as  to 
whether  it  was  indeed  a  Christian  'festival,  or  a  sacrifice  to 
not  exactly  Baal,  but  Bacchus. 


LEAVES    FROM    THK    TREE    IQDBASTL. 


CHAPTER     II. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  indicative  of  the  character 
of  a  people  than  their  architecture.  This  was  peculiarly  true 
of  the  Puritans.  Strength  and  endurance  were  among  their 
chief  characteristics,  and  of  these  qualities  their  buildings 
largely  partook.  There  was  none  of  that  jumbling  together 
of  different  ideas  and  orders,  which  makes  so  many  of  out 
modern  buildings,  especially  those  in  country  towns,  look  so 
much  like  the  cob-houses  we  were  wont  to  build  in  our  child- 
hood ;  but  there  was  that  same  significant,  independent,  self- 
sustained  air  about  them,  that  we  see  looking  out  from  the 
portraits  of  the  old  worthies  of  that  day. 

The  house  of  Mr.  Moody,  that  "godly  man"  who  for 
many  years  "  illuminated  "  the  church  of  Portsmouth,  was  an 
illustration  of  these  remarks.  It  stood  in  an  ample  yard, 
the  rear  of  which  was  planted  with  young  fruit  trees,  bearing 
names  whose  very  sound  brought  with  them,  the  memory  of 
Old  England.  Over  this  yard  the  white  snow  lay  in  a  broad 
unbroken  sheet,  save  where  three  or  four  paths,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  barn,  crossed  and  re-crossed  each  other  like  dark 
threads,  and  where  one,  several  feet  broad,  led  from  the  front 
door  to  the  gate,  near  which  rose  an  oak  of  enormous  girth, 
one  of  the  primeval  children  of  the  forest ;  for  even  the  old- 
est settler  did  not  remember  the  time  when  the  lightning  had 
blighted  its  top,  and  raised  those  wide,  dark  seams  in  its 
trunk.  But  the  heart  of  the  old  giant  was  still  sound,  and 
from  the  huge  bole  had  risen  limbs  of  a  girth  and  height  that 
might  well  shame  the  growth  of  our  own  days.  On  each 
side  of  this  brave  old  tree  stood  a  noble  specimen  of — wo 
were  about  to  say,  the  American  plane-tree ;  but  let  us  call 
them  by  the  good  old  names  by  which  we  have  known  them 
from  infancy — buttonwood.  Tall,  erect,  and  symmetrical, 
their  scarred  and  mottled  coats  giving  evidence  of  many  a  wild 


A   TALE   OF   THE   COLONY   TIMES.  93 

struggle  with  the  elements,  they  stood,  rustling  a  few  with- 
ered leaves,  like  a  banner  of  defiance  in  the  wind,  meet  sup- 
porters of  the  hoary  monarch.  We  have  been,  somewhat  par- 
ticular in  describing  these  trees,  ^because,  in  the  out-of-door 
life  which,  partly  from  necessity,  and  partly  from  a  kind  of 
natural  vagabondism,  we  have  led  among  the  New  England 
hills,  we  have  learned  to  love  their  whole  race,  and  many  a 
kindly  deed  have  they  done  for  us,  both  in  sunshine  and  in 
storm ;  and,  aside  from  these,  we  cannot  say  much  for  the 
embellishments  of  parson  Moody's  yard.  Doubtless,  the  turf 
was  thickly  sown  with  buttercups,  dandelions,  and  daisies, 
through  the  golden  summer  j  and,  even  in  that  bleak  Decem- 
ber of  which  we  speak,  there  were  some  faint  indications 
there  that  went  to  show  that  somehow,  in  that  roomy  old 
mansion,  the  spirit  of  beauty  had  found  shelter ;  for  the 
gnarled  branches  of  a  native  grape  were  twisted  like  serpents 
around  and  above  the  uncouth  porch,  and  the  withered  ten- 
drils of  the  morning-glory,  that  most  home-like  of  all  flowers, 
still  hung  swaying  from  the  strings  that  had  trained  them 
over  the  windows.  And,  surely,  no  more  fitting  home  could 
it  have  found  than  in  the  heart  of  gentle  Sibyl  Moody.  %  She 
was  the  minister's  only  child;  for  one  sorrowful  night  the 
angels  of  life  and  death  had  met  beneath  his  roof,  and, 
within  the  same  hour,  the  one  took  from  him  a  beloved  wife, 
and  the  other  laid  in  his  arms  a  motherless  infant. 
*  Mr.  Moody  had  been  sternly  educated  in  a  stern  school. 
The  tenets  of  his  faith,  notwithstanding  their  high  spiritual 
aims,  were,  as  generally  understood  and  taught,  little  calcu- 
lated to  develop  the  gentler  qualities  of  the  heart ;  such 
development  being  looked  upon  by  those  men  of  iron  natures 
as  a  weakness  little  befitting  those  who  had  "a  great  work  in 
hand."  Therefore,  if  he  manifested  in  his  younger  days  more 
of  the  zeal  of  Peter  than  the  gentleness  of  John,  it  is  not 
surprising.  Late  in  life  he  had  married  a  gentlewoman 
many  years  younger  than  himself.  She  was  one  of  that  class 


94  LEAVES   FROM    THK   fllKK    IGDRASYL. 

of  women  with  whom  love  seems  a  necessity  of  their  natures ; 
whose  affections  spontaneously,  as  it  were,  cling  round  some 
one  or  seme  thing,  without  any  very  clear  recognition  of  that 
stern  law  of  reciprocity  so  binding  upon  most  of  us.  With 
her,  it  was,  indeed,  "  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive ;  " 
and  for  a  few  short  years  she  walked  by  his  side,  looking  up 
to  him  with  mingled  love  and  awe,  happy  in  the  thought  that 
she  was  permitted  to  minister  to  the  comfort  of  so  worthy  a 
man,  dreaming  little  of  the  wealth  of  deep,  earnest  feeling 
that  slept  beneath  his  calm,  severe  exterior.  But  it  is  not 
to  his  victims  alone  that  death  unveils  mysteries.  He  has 
lessons  for  the  living,  also ;  and  when  his  shadowy  presence 
darkened  so  suddenly  the  minister's  dwelling,  the  miracle  of 
the  desert  was  repeated  —  from  that  hitherto  calm,  self-sus- 
tained heart  welled  up  to  the  light  a  fountain  of  pure  and 
earnest  love.  Then  it  was  that  his  dead  wife  became 
truly  united  to  him  heart  and  soul,  and  from  out  her  grave 
sprang  joy  and  hope,  inexpressibly  tender,  such  as  he  had 
never  known  before,  and  which  he  felt  were  for  eternity. 
From  that  hour  the  zeal  of  the  Puritan  became  tempered  by 
the  divine  spirit  of  love. 

In  this  atmosphere  of  chastened  love  and  faith,  Sibyl  Moo- 
dy had  grown  up  to  early  womanhood.  Her  father  had 
watched  over  her  with  a  mother's  care  and  love ;  she  had 
been  his  constant  companion,  and  he  had  developed,  guided, 
and  trained  her  rich  genial  nature,  until  it  had  the  free  grace ' 
and  symmetry  of  a  young  tree  of  the  forest.  Her  face  was 
one  of  those  which  in  a  crowd  might  easily  be  overlooked,  or 
set  down  as  passing  fair ;  but  to  childhood  and  old  age  it 
was  exceedingly  beautiful,  possibly,  because  the  one  was  still 
blessed  with  faint  recollections,  and  the  other  with  dim  fore- 
shadowings,  of  the  bright  denizens  of  their  eternal  home. 

One  man-servant  and  Lament  Collins,  or  Aunt  Menta,  as 
she  was  usually  called,  made  up  the  minister's  household ;  the 
latter  being  housekeeper,  as  well  a"s  maid-of-all-work,  and,  we 


A   TALE   OF   THE   COLONY   TIMES.  95 

might  add,  nurse,  watcher,  and  doctress-general  for  the  whole 
settlement.  Moreover,  we  take  this  occasion  to  say  that  her 
name,  like  a  great  many  others,  was  a  decided  misnomer,  for 
never  was  a  more  cheerful  or  contented  being  than  this  same 
herb-gathering,  syrup-making,  salve-concocting  old  woman. 

Like  a  great  many  other  excellent  souls  of  her  day,  she 
had  a  great  horror  of  any  leaning  to  the  forms  of  Episcopacy, 
and,  firmly  believing  that  "  c'est  le  premier  pas  qui  coute"  she 
had  plied  her  wheel  to  such  good  purpose  on  the  aforesaid 
Christmas  day,  that  nearly  twice  the  number  of  knots  allotted 
as  a  day's  work  had  been  reeled  long  before  night,  and  added 
to  the  goodly  bunch  of  yarn  that  graced  the  wall  of  the  old 
sitting-room. 

Whether  Sibyl  had  meant  to  give  the  old  dame  a  quiet 
lesson  in  Christmas  tolerance,  or  whether  she  had  been  day- 
dreaming (for  no  one  can  convince  us  that  those  fair  shapes 
that  blessed  our  fathers'  households  were  not  sometimes  dream- 
ers like  ourselves,  for  woman's  heart  beat  under  those  prim 
bodices,  and  woman's  love  looked  forth  from  beneath  those 
puritanic  caps  and  bonnets),  we  cannot  say ;  but,  for  some 
reason,  Aunt  Menta's  last  spool  was  reeled,  while  hers  still 
lacked  many  notches  of  being  full.  With  her  clear  eyes 
glancing  occasionally  from  her  thread  to  the  hour-glass  on 
the  table,  and  from  thence  towards  the  declining  sun,  she 
busily  plied  her  wheel,  while  Aunt  Menta  glided  here  and 
there,  with  the  velocity  and  something  of  the  look  of  a  blue 
dragon-fly,  for  night  was  approaching,  a  puritan  Saturday 
night,  when  all  secular  business,  instead  of  being  crowded 
into  the  last  hours  of  the  week,  and,  perchance,  Sunday 
morning,  as  is  often  the  case  now,  was  laid  aside  long  before 
sunset,  and  each  soul  left  free  to  commune  with  itself  and  its 
God. 

Perhaps,  of  all  the  customs  that  have  had  an  influence  in 
the  formation  of  that  peculiar  character  that  makes  us  New 
Englanders  a  marked  people  wherever  we  go,  none  has  been 


96*          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

more  lasting  or  important  than  this  same  habit  of  "  keeping 
Saturday  night." 

Though  no  watcher  among  the  tombs,  no  worshipper  of 
'4inen  grave-clothes,"  rather  than  the  risen,  glorified  spirit, 
we  confess  that  we  see  with  regret  this  old  custom  yielding 
to  the  innovations  of  a  new  age.  Not  that  we  consider  one 
night  more  holy  than  another,  all  time  being  God's ;  but  it 
came  to  check  the  current  of  worldliness,  it  gathered  the  fam- 
ily beneath  the  paternal  roof,  it  brought  an  opportunity  for 
undisturbed  reflection  and  that  self-communion  so  necessary 
to  anything  like  a  true  estimate  of  life  and  life's  ends.  It  is 
becoming  quite  the  fashion  to  speak  contemptuously  and  lightly 
of  these  old  mile-stones  which  our  fathers  erected  on  the  way  of 
life,  yet  they  have  still  a  significance  for  us,  would  we  but  read  it. 

Sibyl's  task  was  completed,  the  tea-table,  with  the  stand- 
ing puritanic  Saturday-night  dish,  baked  pork  and  beans,  was 
drawn  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire,  when  Mr.  Moody,  accom- 
panied by  one  of  the  elders  of  his  church,  who  had  been 
closeted  in  his  study  with  him  for  a  long  tune,  entered  the 
room.  Their  faces  were  unusually  grave,  that  of  the  min- 
ister even  sad,  as  he  observed,  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  the 
elder  : 

"  Verily,  the  day  of  our  sore"  visitation  is  not  yet  passed, 
for  the  prince  of  evil  never  wearieth  of  devices,  and  our 
enemies  are  busy,  both  here  and  at  home.  The  future 
looketh  dark,  and  our  hearts  might  well  faint,  were  it  not 
for  the  blessed  assurance  that  God  still  reigns.  And,  as  we 
would  approve  ourselves  to  Him  rather  than  man,  so  must 
we  judge  in  this  matter  of  our  offending  brothers." 

While  the  minister  spoke,  Aunt  Menta  was  standing  by 
the  window  in  an  attitude  of  reverent  attention ;  but  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  good  dame's  eyes  wandered  more  than 
once  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  common,  along  which  a  train 
of  clumsy  but  highly  ornamented  sleighs,  or  pungs,  as  they 
were  then  termed,  were  passing  at  a  furious  rate. 


A   TALE   OF  THE   COLONY    TIMES.  97 

The  younger  and  gayer  portion  of  the  governor's  guests 
were  settling  their  dinner  by  a  ride,  and  their  rapid  driving 
and  merry  laughter,  as  they  passed  through  the  streets,  were 
eadly  at  variance  with  puritanic  notions  of  propriety.  As 
Mr.  Moody  ceased  speaking,  a  loud  cry  from  the  old  dame 
cut  short  the  elder's  reply,  and  drew  them  all«to  the  window. 
Directly  in  front  of  the  house  the  whole  train  had  come  to  a 
stand.  Some  part  of  the  harness  attached  to  the  governor's 
sleigh  had  given  way,  and  the  spirited  horses,  so  suddenly 
checked  in  their  mad  career,  were  with  difficulty  held  in  by  the 
driver,  while  their  struggles  to  free  themselves  were  frightful. 

The  occupants  of  the  sleigh,  among  whom  were  several 
ladies,  seemed  for  a  moment  paralyzed.  Then  the  gentlemen 
sprang  to  the  assistance  of  the  driver,  and  being  joined  by 
several  of  their  companions,  the  horses  were  soon  disen- 
tangled, and  by  the  aid  of  Mr.  Moody's  man,  John,  the 
broken  harness  repaired.  Sibyl,  in  her  terror  for  the  young 
beings  in  the  sleigh,  had  stood  with  clasped  hands,  leaning 
against  the  window-frame,  watching  intently  the  movements 
of  the  frightened  horses,  unmindful  of  the  admiring  gaze  of  a 
lady  who  occupied  a  sleigh  directly  in  front  of  the  window. 
She  did  not  hear  the  lady's  words  of  admiration,  or  see  her 
touch  her  cavalier's  arm  and  draw  his  attention  from  his  im- 
patient horse  to  herself;  but  she  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  well-known  face  and  beaming  smile,  which  sent 
the  blood  rushing  to  her  very  temples. 

"  Frederic  Vane,  as  true  as  I  live ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Menta, 
who  had  also  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  face,  using  her  strong- 
est form  of  affirmation. 

"Frederic  Vane,"  repeated  the  minister;  "you  must  be 
mistaken,  Menta.  The  youth  still  tarrieth  in  England/' 

"  Nay,  I  believe  she  speaketh  truly,  reverend  sir.     I  met 
the  youth  of  whom  you  speak  in  the  hall  of  the  governor's 
house  yesterday,  as  I  returned  from  my  fruitless  interview 
with  him,"  said  Elder  Hale. 
9 


98  LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  1GDRASYL. 

"  Indeed !  "  replied  Mr.  Moody,  while,  for  a  moment,  the  sad, 
grave  expression  of  his  features  relaxed  into  something  like  a 
smile ;  "  perhaps  he  hath  already  grown  weary  of  the  world's 
vanities  —  wealth,  honor  and  ambition  —  and  returned  to 
seek  a  truer  happiness  here ;  for  the  youth  was  well  taught, 
and  by  no  means  ignorant  of  the  things  which  pertain  to 
man's  highest  good.  Didst  thou  learn  what  brought  him  to 
the  province  again  ?  " 

"  He  came  as  escort  to  the  governor's  ward,  —  Eleanor 
Meredith,  I  think  they  call  her,  —  to  whom  men  say  he  is 
betfothed  in  marriage." 

"  Ah,  is  it  so  ?  "  said  the  old  minister,  sadly.  "  He  often 
spoke,  when  with  us,  of  having  his  fortune  to  carve  out,  for- 
getting, after  the  manner  of  men,  that,  though  man  proposes, 
God  disposes.  Yet  there  was  much  that  was  noble  in  him  — 
much  that  spoke  to  our  earthly  affections ;  and  I  grieve,"  he 
continued,  earnestly,  "  I  deeply  grieve  to  hear  that  he  has 
chosen  his  lot  among  our  oppressors.  But  the  power  of  the 
world  is  very  strong !  " 

"  Who  says  it  ?  who  says  it  ?  "  whispered  Sibyl,  suddenly 
laying  her  hand  upon  the  elder's  arm. 

The  words  and  manner,  so  unexpected  and  so  unusual  from 
her,  caused  both  the  old  men  to  start. 

"  My  child  !  my  Sibyl !  "  exclaimed  her  father,  anxiously, 
as  he  caught  a  view  of  her  white  cheek,  "  you  are  ill.  Some 
water,  Menta,"  he  continued,  folding  his  arm  about  her  for  a 
support.  "  This  fright  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

"  Nay,  I  am  better,  my  father,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  have 
not  replied  to  my  question,  Father  Hale." 

"  0,  it  was  only  the  vain  gossip  I  was  compelled  to  hear 
at  the  Province  House,  while  waiting  to  see  the  governor. 
Doubtless  you  will  soon  be  better  informed  by  the  youth  him- 
self. But  I  fear  you  are  little  better  than  a  coward,  to  be  so 
frightened  at  those  horses,  for  all  you  have  grown  into  such  a 
tall  girl,"  "returned  the  grim  elder,  with  the  nearest  approach 


A  TALE  OF  THE  COLONY  TIMES.  99 

to  a  smile  that  he  was  ever  known  to  be  guilty  of  on  Satur- 
day after  twelve  o'clock. 

The  evening  meal  was  over,  the  chapter  read, -and  the  fer- 
vent prayer  offered,  at  a  much  earlier  hour  in  the  minister's 
dwelling  than  usual,  that  night,  for  the  thick-gathering  troubles 
of  his  people  weighed  heavily  upon  the  old  man's  spirit,  and 
he  would  be  alone  with  his  God. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  in 
blessing,  "  you  are  not  looking  quite  well,  and  had  best  seek 
repose." 

Her  room  adjoined  his  own,  and  could  he  have  seen  her  an 
hour  later,  as  she  knelt  there,  pressing  a  richly-chased  locket, 
with  its  heavy  lock  of  dark  hair,  to  her  lips  —  could  he  have 
caught  the  murmured  words,  "  He  false !  he  wed  the  govern- 
or's ward !  0,  they  do  not  know  him ;  they  cannot  know 
him  as  I  do  !  "  —  he  would  at  least  have  made  a  discovery 
which,  in  the  usual  routine  of  their  daily  life,  he  seemed  likely 
never  to  make.  He  would  have  felt  that  his  child  was  a 
woman  —  a  woman  in  thought  and  feeling,  with  the  strongest 
links  in  her  chain  of  destiny  already  forged  and  pressing  upon 
her  heart. 


CHAPTER     III. 

Some  months  previous  to  Governor  Cranfield's  arrival  in 
the  province,  a  young  man,  bearing  the  name  of  Frederic 
Vane,  had  arrived  at  Portsmouth  from  the  colony  of  New 
York,  with  private  letters  of  importance  for  that  gentleman. 
As  the  governor  was  not  expected  to  arrive  until  October, 
and  the  mansion  chosen  for  his  residence  was  undergoing  ex- 
tensive alterations,  the  youth  took  up  his  quarters  at  the 
principal  inn.  The  settlement  suffered  much  from  an  epidemic 
fever  that  season,  and,  among  others,  the  landlord  and  the 
young  stranger  were  both  seized  with  it.  As  was  then  the 


100          LEAYKS  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

custom,  the  minister  and  his  family  were  everywhere  among 
the  sufferers,  not  only  to  sympathize  and  advise,  but  to  help.  • 

Mr.  Moody,  seeing  that  both  the  patients  could  not  have 
the  necessary  care  bestowed  upon  them  at  the  inn,  had  the 
young  stranger  removed  to  his  own  house.  As  was  usual 
with  the  members  of  his  profession  at  that  time,  he  possessed 
considerable  knowledge  of  medicine,  and,  aided  by  the  excel- 
lent nursing  of  Aunt  Menta,  to  say  nothing  of  her  wonderful 
syrups,  prepared  after  a  recipe  given  to  her  sainted  mother 
by  one  of  the  Bourchier  family,  and  used  in  the  family  of  the 
Lord  Protector  himself,  according  to  the  good  dame,  together 
with  the  gentle  ministry  of  Sibyl,  what  wonder,  the  crisis 
once  passed,  that  the  youth  grew  rapidly  convalescent  ?  What 
wonder  that  the  gentle  stranger  —  so  patient  in  his  illness,  so 
eloquent  in. his  gratitude  —  grew  as  rapidly  dear  to  the  min- 
ister's family  ? 

Mr.  Moody  was  a  scholar,  a  graduate  of  one  of  England's 
universities.  The  members  of  his  flock  were  men  of  sound 
sense  and  respectable  attainments,  but  they  cared  little  for 
the  classic  lore  of  the  schools ;  therefore,  the  good  man  the 
more  keenly  enjoyed  this  daily  intercourse  with  a  mind  so  well 
cultured,  so  ingenuous,  so  full  of  noble  aspirations,  as  that  of 
his  young  friend  and  guest. 

Ill,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  this  was,  as,  thank  Heaven, 
it  ever  has  been  with  woman,  sufficient  reason  for  the  interest 
with  which  Aunt  Menta  and  Sibyl  watched  over  him.  But, 
as  the  wQeks  went  on,  and  the  flush  of  health  deepened  on  his 
cheek  and  lit  up  his  proud,  dark  eyes,  was  it  still  only  this  that 
gave  the  sudden  impetus  to  the  young  blood  of  the  maiden  at 
the  sound  of  his  step,  and  sent  it,  blushing  like  a  rosy  dawn, 
over  neck  and  cheek  whenever  he  stole  upon  her  unawares  ? 

Or,  as  he  read,  with  his  clear,  low  voice  an$}  distinct  enun- 
ciation, those  works  which  bear  fruit  for  all  time  —  the  glo- 
rious essays  of  John  Milton  —  to  the  delighted  old  minister, 
was  it  mere  gratitude,  and  nothing  more,  that  led  him,  at  each 


A    TALE   OF    THE    COLONY    TIMES.  101 

divine  truth  and*  sublime  thought,  to  invariably  turn  to  her. 
as  if  he  sought  to  gather  from  her  sweet  face  a  double  harvest 
of  pleasure  ? 

So  they  thought;  and,  perhaps,  the  whole  experience  of 
life  does  not  contain  hours  of  purer,  more  unallsyed  happi- 
ness, than  this  unconscious  growth  of  love,  this  slow  unfolding 
of  the  heart's  flower,  ere  passion  hath  breathed  upon  its  leaves 
for  fruition  or  decay. 

But  we  cannot  dream  forever,  and  the  hours,  which  linger 
only  in  the  presence  of  sorrow,  soon  brought  the  awakening. 

The  business  which  had  brought  him  to  Portsmouth  was 
arranged,  and  on  the  evening  which  preceded  his  departure 
fbr  England,  Sibyl  and  he  found  themselves  alone  in  the  large 
old  sitting-room  of  the  parsonage.  The  minister  had  been 
suddenly  called  forth  on  some  errand  of  mercy,  and  Aunt 
Menta  was  still  busy  with  her  household  labors  in  the  kitchen. 
The  night  was  dark  and  blustering,  but  a  bright  fire  blazed  in 
the  wide  fireplace,  giving  a  cheerful  aspect  to  the  room,  near 
which  sat  Sibyl,  gazing  intently  at  the  glowing  embers,  while 
Frederic  Vane  paced  restlessly  the  oaken  floor. 

The  maiden  started  suddenly,  as  a  gust  of  wind  drove  a 
shower  of  heavy  rain-drops  against  the  window,  and,  turning 
her  sorrowful  face  towards  him,  said,  eagerly, 

"  Hear  you  that,  Frederic  ?  The  '  Adventure  '  will  not  sail 
to-morrow.  You  will  stay  with  us  another  day;  perhaps 
another  week." 

"  Sybil,"  said  the  young  man,  suddenly  pausing  before  her, 
and  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  "  you  will  never  forget 
me?" 

"Forget  you!  —  you,  my  brother!"  said  the  young  girl, 
raising  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  Brother !  "  repeated  he,  impatiently.  "  Do  not  call  me 
so  again." 

"  And  why  not,  Frederic  ?  You  promised  to  be  my  brother 
always." 


102          LKAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Because,  because,"  he  said,  impatiently ,•"  there  is  a  love 
stronger,  deeper,  truer,  even,  than  a  brother's.  I  have  heard 
of  it,  but  now  I  know  it  —  I  feel  it ;  and  you,  Sibyl,"  —  he 
paused  and  gazed  down  into  her  eyes,  until  the  tremulous, 
white  lids«drooped,  and  the  cotor  in  her  cheek  went  and  came 
like  the  changeful  lights  in  the  northern  sky,  —  "  you,  too, 
feel  and  know  it,"  he  added,  as  he  drew  her  to  him  with  a 
glance  of  joy. 

For  one  m'oment  her  fair  head  rested  on  his  breast  as  he 
whispered,  "No,  we  cannot  forget,  dearest  Sibyl.  In  two 
years  I  shall  return  to  claim  " — 

The  quick  step  of  Aunt  Menta  upon  the  threshold  inter- 
rupted his  words,  but  he  could  not  fail  to  read  aright  the  ex- 
pression of  those  bashful  eyes  that  for  one  second  met  his,  as 
she  hurriedly  slipped  from  his  arms  and  escaped  from  the 
room. 

When  she  returned,  she  found  her  father  there,  and  two  of 
the  chief  men  of  the  town,  who  wished  to  avail  themselves  ol 
the  young  man's  return,  to  transmit  letters  to  their  friends  in 
England. 

It  is  questionable  whether  either  of  the  young  people  prof- 
ited much  by  the  sage  remarks  of  the  gentlemen,  on  the 
probable  length  of  the  "  Adventure's  "  voyage,  the  prospect 
of  fair  weather,  etc.;  but  his  silence  only  raised  him  in  their 
esteem. 

"  A  very  discreet  and  sensible  youth ;  one  who  has  a  proper 
respect  for  his  elders,"  observed  Mr.  Amesbury  to  his  com- 
panion, as  they  left  the  house. 

Mr.  Moody  had,  indeed,  noticed  the  thoughtful  silence  of 
his  young  guest,  but  even  his  heart,  schooled  to  submission  by 
many  and  sore  trials,  grew  sad  at  the  thought  of  parting,  and 
he  did  not  deem  it  strange.  The  slight  interruption  caused 
by  the  departure  of  the  gentlemen  had  scarcely  subsided,  and 
the  family  once  more  gathered  in  silence  around  the  hearth, 
when  they  were  startled  by  a  message  from  the  captain  of  the 


A    TALE   OF   THE    COLONY   TIMES.  103 

ship,  saying,  that  as  there  was  a  prospect  of  fine  weather,  and 
the  wind  was  getting  to  be  fair  and  steady,  the  gentleman  had 
best  come  on  board  within  a  half  hour  or  so,  as  he  should 
probably  sail  at  flood-tide. 

His  trunks  were  already  on  board ;  still  there  were  bustle 
and  confusion  in  the  minister's  quiet  dwelling,  for  each  of  its 
members  had  thought  of  something  more  for  his  comfort. 
Then,  they  once  more  gathered  in  that  room,  and  Sibyl,  with 
the  self-restraint  peculiar  to  her  puritan  training,  forced  back 
her  sobs,  while  her  father's  low  voice  rose  in  fervnt  petitions 
for  Heaven's  blessing  upon  their  young  friend  in  all  his 
wanderings.  Then  the  young  man's  head  was  bowed  to 
receive  his  blessing.  Aunt  Menta's  good  wishes  responded  to, 
and  repeated  directions  concerning  his  health  listened  to, 
with  due  respect,  he  turned  to  Sibyl.  For  some  seconds  he 
pressed  her  hands  in  silence,  while  his  lips  trembled  as  he 
gazed  into  her  tearful  eyes.  "  God  bless  you,  Sibyl !  You 
will  not  forget,"  he  murmured,  at  length. 

"  The  child  will  not  be  likely  to  do  that,"  replied  the  old 
man,  with  a  smile.  "  We  shall  all  miss  you  much,  my  son, 
and  think  of  you  often  with  prayers." 

"  But  she  should  have  something  to  remind  her  of  me,"  he 
said,  taking  from  his  own  neck  a  locket  attached  to  a  light 
gold  chain.  "  You  will  permit  her  to  wear  this  for  my  sake, 
dear  sir ;  nor  will  she  prize  it  the  less  because  it  was  the  gift 
of  my  only  sister." 

The  old  man  smiled,  as  he  replied,  "Be  it  so.  Youth 
seeks  to  remember,  old  age  to  forget.  Such  is  life,  my  chil- 
dren." 

The  maiden  bent  her  head  while  the  young  man  threw  the 
light  chain  over  her  neck,  and  her  cheek  glowed  like  the  rose 
when  she  again  lifted  it,  for  she  saw  that  the  light  hair  of  the 
sister,  which  she  had  often  seen  within  the  locket,  had  given 
place  to  a  lock  of  a  darker  hue. 


104  LEAVES   FROM   THE  TREE   IGDRA3YL. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

On  the  day  succeeding  Christmas,  the  congregation  of  the 
faithful,  in  the  town  of  Portsmouth,  came  up  to  the  house  of 
the  Lord  with  countenances  unusually  grave  and  severe,  for 
one  of  their  own  number  had  fallen  into  grievous  sin,  and, 
moreover,  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  Governor  Cranfield 
weighed  heavily  upon  their  hearts.  Yet  a  gleam  of  stern  joy 
lit  up  more  than  one  face  at  the  thought  of  the  quiet  yet 
decided  rebuke  conveyed  in  the  conduct  of  the  people  on  the 
preceding  day ;  and  the  light  of  eternal  truth  which  they  did 
hold,  though  oftentimes  warped  and  perverted  by  human  error, 
never  shone  more  brightly  than  on  that  day,  darkened  as  it 
was  by  the  shadow  of  future  trouble. 

The  service  for  the  day  was  over  when  the  minister  proceeded 
to  lay  before  the  church  the  case  of  John  Denney,  a  member, 
charged  with  perjury.  He  stated  the  case  in  detail ;  but  it  is 
sufficient  for  us  to  say,  that  this  Denney  was  the  owner  of  a 
vessel  which  had  been  seized  by  Randolph,  on  plea  of  defraud- 
ing the  revenue.  Her  master,  however,  found  means  to  elude 
the  vigilance  of  his  agents,  and  one  morning  She  was  missing 
from  the  harbor.  Her  owner  protested  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  affair,  but,  upon  his  trial,  there  appeared  abundant  tes- 
timony to  the  contrary.  He  soon  found  the  means  to  com- 
pound the  matter  with  the  governor  and  Randolph,  but  the 
church,  of  which  he  had  long  been  a  member,  were  not  so 
easily  satisfied. 

Mr.  Moody,  though  he  knew  he  was  particularly  obnoxious 
to  the  governor  and  his  party,  on  account  of  the  plainness  and 
freedom  of  his  speech,  shrank  from  no  trial  in  the  way  of 
duty.  He  felt  that  the  purity  of  his  church  was  at  stake, 
and  addressed  a  respectful  note  to  the  governor,  requesting  a 
copy  of  the  evidence  against  Denney,  that  he  might  be  tried 
according  to  their  ecclesiastical  discipline.  The  governor  had 
replied,  and,  upon  this  letter,  Mr.  Moody  particularly  wished 


A   TALE   OF   THE   COLONY   TIMES.  105 

for  the  opinion  and  counsel  of  the  brethren.  He  rose  and 
read  it  in  a  firm,  unfaltering  voice,  and  with  an  undisturbed 
countenance,  though  the  faces  around  him  grew  dark  with  in- 
dignation. Thus  ran  the  missive  : 

"  We  ourselves  have  pardoned  the  man,  and  those  to  whom 
we  see  fit  to  extend  our  mercy  are  not  to  be  questioned  by 
any  self-constituted  authority ;  therefore,  molest  him  at  your 
peril." 

"  My  brethren,^  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  pause  of 
some  seconds,  "  when,  in  my  early  manhood,  I  dedicated  my- 
self to  the  service  of  God,  to  break  the  bread  of  life  to  his 
scattered  and  suffering  people,  I  cast  from  me  all  fear  of 
bodily  peril,  and  have  ever  striven  to  act  in  all  things  with  a 
single  eye  to  God's  glory.  Therefore,  I  have  but  one  answer 
to  make  to  this  man  whom  the  majesty  of  England  hath  set  to 
rule  over  us.  Ye  have  heard  his  words,  my  brethren ;  and  it 
is  reserved  unto  you  to  say  whether  this  church,  gathered 
amid  suffering  and  trouble,  and  nurtured  with  so  many  prayers 
and  tears,  shall  serve  God  or  man.  Let  such  as  fear  Him, 
rather  than  man,  arise  !  " 

The  congregation  rose  to  a  man,  and  the  minister  looked 
down  on  a  crowd  of  faces,  toil-worn,  seamed,  and  scarred 
by  many  a  battle  with  both  temporal  and  spiritual  foes,  in 
many  cases  pale  and  haggard  from  illness,  but  firm  and  undis- 
mayed, ready  to  strengthen  his  hands,  even  as  Aaron  and 
Hur  strengthened  the  hands  of  Moses  in  the  battle  of  the 
Lord. 

Then  followed  a  unanimous  vote  to  notify  the  offending 
brother  that  his  trial  would  take  place  on  the  ensuing  week, 
and  a  committee  was  appointed  to  visit  him  once  more,  to 
urge  upon  him  the  duty  of  confession. 

It  was  the  wish  of  the  brethren  that  the  old  minister  should 
prepare  a  sermon  upon  false  swearing  for  the  ensuing  Sabbath ; 
and,  while  he  was  very  busy  in  his  study,  how  sped  the  time 
with  his  daughter? 


10(5         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Still  lighted  by  hope,  although,  but  by  that  one  glance  of 
recognition,  Frederic  Vane  had  not  as  yet  manifested  a  knowl- 
edge of  her  existence,  yet,  like  all  her  sex,  her  invention  in 
providing  excuses  for  the  being  she  loved,  was  inexhaustible. 
A  dark  tempest  was  gathering  over  her  own  and  her  old 
father's  head,  while  she,  in  her  unsuspecting  truth  and  in- 
nocence, lived  on  in  hope  and  trust. 

Before  another  Sabbath,  John  Denney,  touched  by  the 
earnest  prayers  and  expostulations  of  his  brethren,  came  be- 
fore them,  and  made  ample  confession  of  his  guilt,  and,  with 
fitting  censure,  was  forgiven.  It  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
the  anger  and  mortification  of  the  royal  governor  when  he 
heard  of  these  proceedings.  His  occasional  outbursts  were 
the  more  frightful  from  the  strong  self-control  which  he  was 
obliged  to  place  upon  himself  in  the  presence  of  his  guests, 
many  of  whom  were  spending  the  holydays  with  him.  Ran- 
dolph, whose  interest  in  the  matter  was  quite  equal  to  the 
governor's,  seemed  to  forget  his  own  anger  in  the  malicious 
pleasure  he  took  in  probing  that  of  the  latter. 

One  evening,  after  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  and  the  gen- 
tlemen, some  six  or  eight  in  number,  still  lingered  around  the 
dinner-table,  he  arose,  and,  as  if  in  reply  to  some  gay  remark 
of  his  vis'&'vis,  cried,  jestingly  : 

"  Hear  !  0,  noble  gentlemen,  hear !  William  de  Graiville, 
gentleman,  of  Sussex,  England,  hath  fairly  won  ten  guineas 
of  me,  Edward  Randolph —  a  wager  between  us  in  the  case 
of  the  King  versus  Fanaticism ;  and,  certe,s,  gentlemen,  his 
majesty  may  well  look  grave,  when  his  royal  authority,  vested 
in  the  person  of  our  excellent  host  here,  is  thus  trampled  upon 
by  a  crdp-eared,  psalm-singing  knave,  unless,  indeed,"  he 
added,  with  a  laugh,  "  the  merrie  monarch  be  more  inclined 
to  consider  the  crestfallen  condition  of  our  puissant  selves,  as 
an  especial  provocation  to  mirth,  which  I  think  the  most 
likely." 

"  Then,  by  the  Lord  thafrliveth ! "  exclaimed  the  governor, 


A  TALK  OJ1  THE  COLONY   TIMES.  107 

in  a  burst  of  ungovernable  anger,  "  his  majesty  will  be  the 
only  one  who  will  care  to  laugh  twice,  at  least  where  Edward 
Cranfield  is  concerned.  As  for  this  old  priest,  he  shall  soon 
find  that  he  is  not  in  heaven,  saint  though  he  claim  to  be.  I 
will  put  him  where  his  treasonable  discourses  will  find  fewer 
listeners ! " 

For  a  moment  deep  silence  followed  this  speech,  for  they 
felt  that  his  excellency  was  in  no  mood  for  joking.  Then 
one  of  the  eldest  of  his  guests,  whose  moderate  counsels  had 
often  saved  him  from  rash  deeds,  rema'rked : 

"  But  we  must  not  forget  that  this  Puritan  is  also  an  Eng- 
lishman. We  must  prove  his  treason  before  we  punish  him." 

"  0,  that  is  easily  enough  done ! "  said  one  of  the  younger 
guests.  "Here  is  Vane,  who  spent  some  months  at  his  house. 
He  can  give  us  proof  by  the  bushel,  I  dare  say." 

"  Yes,  speak  out,  Vane.  What  treasonable  homilies  did 
old  Crop-ear  preach  to  you  ?  "  cried  another,  laughing. 

"  And  so  betray  the  man  to  whom,  perhaps,  I  owe  my  life. 
Never !  even  were  he  guilty  of  the  charge,"  replied  the  young 
man,  rising,  while  his  beautiful  mouth,  in  which  there  was  a 
singular  blending  of  strength  and  indecision,  grew  rigid  with 
indignant  scorn.  "  And,  believe  me,  gentlemen,"  he  added, 
more  calmly,  "  Mr.  Moody,  when  I  knew  him,  was  a  kind,  well- 
educated,  generous-hearted  man,  though  deeply  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  his  faith,  I  grant.  He  spoke  to  me  openly,  as  if 
I  had  been  his  own  son,  and,  during  my  whole  stay  under  his 
roof,  I  heard  nothing  which  could  be  construed  into  treason 
against  his  majesty  or  the  realm." 

"  Perhaps,  among  his  gifts,  he  had  that  of  prophecy  also, 
and  foresaw  that  the  day  might  come  when  you  would  really 
stand  in  that  filial  relation  to  him.  'T  is  said  the  old  man 
has  a  pretty  daughter.  Eh,  Vane  ?  "  said  another. 

"  By  the  mass,  Darcy,  your  shaft  has  hit  home,"  cried  de 
Graiville,  seeing  the  mounting  color  on  Vane's  cheek.  "  No 
need  to  blush,  Vane ;  I  saw  the  damsel  to-day,  and  she  is  fair 


108          LEAVES  FROM  TOE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

enough  to  be  worth  the  trouble  of  winning.  I  give  you  fair 
warning  that  I  am  going  to  enter  the  lists  with  you  ;  but  re- 
member that  I  never  woo  save  par  amours.  I  gave  her  a  look 
to-day ;  and  Randolph's  ten  guineas  to  a  crown-piece  that  I 
succeed,  notwithstanding  your  advantage  of  previous  acquaint- 
ance. Your  saints  are  never  quite  sound  at  the  core." 

"  Rascal !  "  exclaimed  Vane,  choking  with  indignation,  as 
he  aimed  a  wine-glass  at  de  Graiville's  head.  But  his  arm 
was  suddenly  caught  back,  and  the  voice  of  the  gentleman 
who  a  few  moments  before  had  sought  to  moderate  the  gov- 
ernor's anger,  whispered  in  his  ear,  as  he  drew  him  aside,  — 

"  Rash  blood,  rash  blood,  young  man ;  though  I  grant  you 
had  just  cause." 

For  some  moments  the  room  was  in  confusion,  when  tho 
governor,  as  the  shortest  way  of  settling  a  temporary  peace 
proposed  adjourning  to  the  drawing-room.  But  the  syren 
tones  and  marked  preference  of  the  honorable  Eleanor  Mere- 
dith had  lost  their  fascination  for  Frederic  Vane  that  evening. 
His  mind,  for  some  weeks  occupied  by  her,  was  now  thor- 
oughly roused,  and  his  thoughts  busy  with  the  past. 

Hitherto,  we  have  said  little  of  young  Vane's  personal 
appearance,  and,  perhaps,  we  may  as  well  briefly  describe  it, 
inasmuch  as  it  was  a  fair  index  to  his  character.  His  face 
was  just  such  an  one  as  ever  wins  the  love  of  young  and  trust- 
ing hearts,  —  full  of  rich,  sensuous  beauty;  that  peculiar 
moulding  of  feature  and  expression  which,  by  self-culture  and 
careful  training,  may  be  developed  into  the  noblest  form  of 
manly  beauty,  or,  by  indolence  and  self-excess,  degenerate  into 
mere  sensualism.  There  was  no  lack  of  intellect :  and,  with 
the  whole  energy  of  his  nature  aroused  by  the  events  of  the 
evening,  perhaps  he  never  looked  more  worthy  of  admiration 
than  on  the  night  of  which  we  speak,  as  he  sat  in  thoughtful 
silence  by  the  side  of  the  fair  English  lady. 

As  he  was  crossing  the  gallery  towards  his  own  room,  late 
that  night,  a  servant  overtook  him,  saying  that  the  governor 


A    TALE   OF   THE   COLONY   TIMES.  109 

requested  a  few  moments'  private  conversation  with  him.  He 
turned  to  his  excellency's  private  room,  and  met,  not  the 
angry,  baffled  ruler,  but  the  smooth,  polished  courtier  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  I. 

After  some  desultory  remarks,  and  a  graceful  allusion  to 
and  apology  for  his  own  want  of  self-control  at  the  dinner- 
table,  the  governor  laid  his  hand  on  a  pile  of  letters,  and 
said : 

"  I  have  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  to  you  of  the  contents 
of  your  mother's  letters.  She  says  that  the  death  of  your 
only  near  male  relative  and  guardian  has  left  me,  her  distant 
cousin,  your  natural  friend  and  adviser,  and  wishes  me  to  pro- 
cure for  you  some  situation  which  may  be  adapted  to  your 
talents.  I  am  willing  to  do  this,  as  much  for  your  own  sake  as 
hers.  Your  natural  abilities  are  good,  my  influence  at  court 
not  small.  With  such  grounds  to  start  from,  it  will  be  your 
own  fault  if  you  do  not  reach  a  high  round  on  fame's  ladder. 
Only  be  wary  and  prudent,  boy,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of 
such  brawls  as  that  we  have  just  witnessed.  Indeed,  I  much 
commend  your  spirit,  but,  as  a  general  thing,  quarrels  are 
impolitic.  If  de  Graiville  challenges  you,  as  most  likely 
he  will,  you  must  meet  him ;  but,  henceforth,  quarrel  only 
when  it  will  further  your  ends  better  than  peace.  And,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "  you  are  young  and  handsome  —  marry  well. 
Methinks  you  had  one  by  your  side  this  evening  who  would 
not  need  much  wooing.  Add  her  wealth  to  my  influence  and 
your  talent,  and  your  way  is  clear.  By  Jove,  boy,  if  you 
show  one  half  the  spirit  in  wooing  my  ward,  Eleanor,  that  you 
did  to-night  in  defending  that  old  rebel,  she  will  be  yours  in 
a  fortnight !  As  to  his  daughter,  let  de  Graiville  woo  her  as 
he  lists.  It  is  naught  to  us." 

Alas  for  the  vanity  and  worldliness  of  the  human  heart ! 

Where   was   the   high    and   noble   spirit    that    had   hurled 

defiance  at  de  Graiville  a  few  hours  before  ?     Chilled  by  the 

cold  breath  of  worldly  wisdom,  until,  long  bef'src  he  again 

10 


110  LEAVES   FHOM    TliE   TREE   IGDRASYL. 

sought  his  own  room,  the  gentle  memory  of  Sibyl,  which  had 
been  so  surely  drawing  him  1)ack  to  her  side  during  the  even- 
ing hours,  had  faded  before  the  fitful  glare  that  gleamed 
from  the  ambitious  path  which  the  governor's  words  had 
opened. 


CHAPTER   v. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  the  light  of  hope  glimmered 
fainter  and  fainter  in  the  heart  of  Sibyl  Moody.  The  report 
of  Frederic  Vane's  engagement  to  the  lovely  English  lady  be- 
came current  among  the  townspeople,  and,  though  she  seldom 
trusted  her  lips  with  his  name,  she  could  not  fail  to  hear  it. 
Gradually  came  the  conviction  that  she  was  forgotten,  and 
with  it  that  hour  of  withering  anguish,  —  that  bitter  struggle 
when  the  young  heart  finds,  for  the  first  time,  that  its  cher- 
ished idols  are  false  —  its  love  and  trust  dishonored.  It  was 
a  fearful  trial  —  that  feeling  of  utter  desolation  that  settled 
upon  her  heart,  congealing  for  a  time  its  very  life-blood.  She 
met  it  alone,  and  alone  she  sought  for  strength  to  bear  it. 
Though  such  struggles  cannot  be,  and  leave  no  trace  upon  tlw- 
outward  frame,  her  old  father,  more  than  usually  occupied  with 
the  troubles  of  his  society,  happily  failed  to  notice  the  growing 
pallor  of  her  cheek  or  the  unusual  lassitude  of  her  movements. 
They  did  not,  however,  escape  the  watchful  eye  of  Aunt  Menta  ; 
but  she,  kind  soul,  while  she  urged,  nay,  forced  upon  the 
maiden  double  doses  of  her  syrups,  could  not,  when  she 
looked  upon  her  bowed  form  and  careworn  face,  bear  to  add  to 
his  anxiety. 

One  evening,  as  the  old  man  turned  with  a  heavier  step 
than  usual  toward  his  study  door,  he  suddenly  paused  and 
gazed  for  some  seconds  anxiously  on  the  face  of  his  child. 

"  Sibyl,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  in 
my  study.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

The  glance  and  the  words  brought  a  deep  blush  to  the 


A   TALE  OF   THE   COLONY  TIMES.  Ill 

maiden's  cheek,  as,  with  a  mental  prayer  for  strength  to  con- 
ceal her  suffering,  she  arose  and  followed  him. 

He  took  his  arm-chair  by  the  table,  and,  leaning  his  head 
on  his  hands,  sat  for  some  time  as  if  occupied  in  silent  prayer, 
while  his  daughter  drew  a  low  seat  to  his  side,  and,  laying 
her  head  on  his  knee,  as  in  the  days  of  childhood,  awaited 
his  words. 

"  Sibyl,"  he  said,  at  length,  passing  his  hand  fondly  over 
her  hair,  "  thy  father  hath  grown  old  and  forgetful.  In  the 
trials  and  troubles  with  which  it  hath  pleased  Him  to  sur- 
round my  age  as  well  as  my  youth,  I  have  forgotten  that  my 
child  hath  grown  to  womanhood.  This  day,  Elder  Hale  hath 
reminded  me  of  it,  by  asking  thee  in  marriage  for  his  son.  He 
is  a  deserving  youth,  of  a  family  rich  in  temporal  blessings, 
but  richer  still,  I  trust,  in  the  heavenly  inheritance  that 
awaiteth  the  servants  of  the  Lord.  What  answer  shall  I 
make  to  this  young  man,  my  child  ?  " 

"  0,  send  me  not  from  you !  Let  me  live  and  die  with  v,ou, 
my  father ! "  cried  the  poor  girl,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands  upon  his  knee,  while  every  nerve  in  her  fair  neck 
twitched  convulsively  in  her  effort  to  suppress  her  emotion. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  send  you  from  me  Sibyl ;  but  sore 
trouble,  imprisonment,  and  perhaps  death,  await  me.  Listen, 
my  child.  This  day  the  governor  hath  notified  me  that  he, 
together  with  Mason  and  his  follower  Hinckes,  will  partake 
of  the  Lord's  Supper  with  us  next  Sabbath  ;  and,  moreover, 
he  requireth  me  to  administer  it  according  to  the  forms  of  the 
established  -church,  with  liturgy  and  vain  repetitions.  This, 
of  course,  I  have  wholly  refused  to  do  ;  therefore  he  hath  the 
pretext  against  me  which  he  hath  long  sought.  Before 
another  day  he  may  drag  me  to  prison,  and  though  I  know 
that  He  will  not  try  me  beyond  my  strength,  yet  the  thought 
of  thee,  my  daughter,"  —  and,  for  the  first  time  since  he  com- 
menced speaking,  the  old  man's  voice  grew  tremulous, — 


112         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  homeless  and  exposed  to  the  snares  of  the  spoiler,  weakeneth 
my  heart." 

"  Father,"  said  Sibyl,  raising  her  head  from  his  knee,  and 
speaking  very  earnestly,  "  could  you  be  happier  separated 
from  your  child  ?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  struggle  in  the  old  man's  heart, 
and  the  rigid  lines  about  his  mouth  moved  convulsively  as  he 
exclaimed,  "  Tempt  me  not,  my  child  !  O,  tempt  me  not !  " 

"  Then  we  part  no  more.  This  governor  is  human ;  he 
cannot  forbid  the  child  to  share  her  father's  fate.  Let  that 
be  what  it  may,  I  will  not  shrink,  if  so  be  we  may  meet  it 
together.  But  speak  no  more,"  and  the  enthusiasm,  which  for 
a  moment  had  lit  up  her  pale  face,  gave  place  to  the  expres- 
sion of  bitter  suffering.  "  0,  speak  no  more,  I  entreat  of  you, 
of  this  marriage  !  " 

The  old  man  bent  over  her,  and  for  some  moments  his  with- 
ered cheek  rested  upon  her  head,  ere  he  trusted  his  voice  in 
reply.  At  length  he  said,  brokenly, 

"  It  was  not  thy  love  nor  thy  devotion  that  I  doubted;  but," 
he  added,  slowly,  "  thou  art  fair,  my  Sibyl ;  thou  hast  thy 
mother's  comely  face,  and  I  thought  of  my  death,  and  the 
power  of  our  enemies.  Yet,  surely,  there  is  one  among  them 
who,  forgetful  as  he  seems,  would  not  see  thee  wronged.  I 
speak  of  Frederic  Vane." 

The  quick,  convulsive  shudder  that  passed  through  the  girl's 
frame  shook  even  him,  and  for  some  moments  he  sat  in  bewil- 
dered surprise.  Then  the  truth  seemed  suddenly  to  dawn  upon 
him.  He  raised  her  head  in  his  trembling  old  hands,  and 
gazed  on  her  pale  face  for  some  moments,  while  his  own  grew 
tremulous  with  emotion.  "  My  child,  my  poor  child  !  "  he 
murmured.  That  mournful  tone  was  too  much  for  Sibyl. 
The  self-command  that  she  had  struggled  to  maintain  gave 
way,  and,  hiding  her  face  in  his  bosom,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  child,  my  poor,  motherless  child ! "  he  murmured 
again,  as  he  drew  her  closely  to  his  heart.  "  And  so  I  cher- 


A    TALE   OF    THE   COLONY   TIMES.  lie 

ished  a  viper  under  my  roof.  Blind  mole  that  I  was,  not  to 
foresee  this !  So  true  and  noble  as  he  seemed.  Heaven 
knows  that  I  cherished,  yea,  loved  him  as  a  son,  and  he  — 
I  will"  — 

"  Forgive  him,  father,  even  as  I  have  forgiven  him,"  whis- 
pered a  voice  in  his  ear. 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  all,  Sibyl,  all." 

She  left  the  .room,  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  absence,  re- 
turned and  placed  in  his  hands  Frederic  Vane's  parting  gift, 
the  locket  enclosing  the  lock  of  hair.  Then,  kneeling  at  his 
side,  she  simply  and  briefly  related  the  story  of  her  love,  while, 
with  one  hand  laid  upon  her  head,  he  gazed  thoughtfully  down 
upon  her  face. 

"  So  my  thoughtlessness  has  darkened  the  light  of  thy 
young  life,  my  daughter,  and  this  man  weds  another  —  the 
ward  of  our  bitterest  enemy.  He  was  unworthy  of  our  love, 
my  Sibyl." 

"  Blame  him  not,  father.  The  lady  is  said  to  be  good,  — 
beautiful,  I  know  her  to.  be,  for  I  saw  her  once ;  more  fitting 
to  be  his  wife  than  simple  Sibyl  Moody.  Yet  she  can  never 
love  him  " —  Again  her  hands  were  pressed  upon  her  eyes, 
as  if  to'force  back  the  rush  of  tears.  "  Enough,  my  father," 
she  added,  meekly  ;  "  if  I  have  sinned  in  setting  up  an  earthly 
idol  —  if  I  have  erred  in  withholding  this  matter  from  you,  I 
have  also  suffered." 

"  I  blame  you  not,  Sibyl.  It  was  but  natural.  Hence- 
forth, we  will  part  no  more,  and  our  only  trust  must  be  in 
Him  who  is  both  able  and  willing  to  save.  And  kneeling 
down  by  her  side,  in  a  voice  shaken  with  grief,  the  old  man 
laid  his  daughter's  sorrows  before  the  throne  of  Him  whom  he 
had  served  from  his  youth. 

He  had  not  miscalculated  the  vengeance  of  the  governor. 

Two  weeks  after,  the  doors  of  the  prison  closed  behind  them. 

During  thirteen  weary  weeks  they  were  shut  away  from  God's 

punlight  and  fresh  air ;  but  no  royal  authority  could  deprive 

10* 


114         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

that  old  man  of  the  light  of  a  clear  conscience,  and  he  often 
felt,  that,  like  the  saints  of  old,  an  angel  ministered  unto  him 
under  the  form  of  his  child. 

And  when  those  heavy  doors  were  opened,  and,  under  the 
ban  of  exile,  he  was  again  permitted  to  go  forth,  the  angel 
was  still  by  his  side,  for  she  did  not  vanish  suddenly  like  those 
of  which  we  read,  but  her  cheek  grew  more  and  more  white 
and  transparent,  her  eye  brighter  and  her  step  slower,  until, 
with  the  fall  of  the  leaves,  she  disappeared  from  his  sight. 
But  the  old  man  looked  upward  with  a  calm  smile,  for  he 
knew  that  in  a  few  short  days  he  should  again  look  upon  her 
in  "  those  boundless  regions  of  all  perfection." 


UNCLE    JOHN'S    VISIT. 

A  TALE  FOB  THE  TIMES 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  came  at  last,  —  what  the  fire,  Cassandra-like,  had  mut- 
tered of  for  several  days  past ;  what  people  prophesied  to 
each  other  on  the  street ;  what  Bill  Lyman,  the  stage-driver, 
had  foreseen  that  morning,  when  he  called  for  his  heaviest 
pea-jacket ;  what  young  maidens  and  school-boys  had  looked 
for  with  such  impatient  longings ;  what  the  houseless  and 
homeless  had  anticipated  with  anxiety  and  dread, — the  snow- 
storm. 

And  a  right  brave  storm  it  was ;  none  of  your  light,  trifling 
affairs,  that  merely  cover  the  earth  with  a  thin  frosting,  like 
that  on  a  bridal  loaf,  but  a  regular  old-fashioned  snow-storm. 
To  be  sure,  it  was  rather  coquettish  at  first,  like  a  young 
horse  at  starting,  but  soon  it  settled  down,  and  went  to  work 
in  good  earnest.  It  wove  dainty  coverlets  for  the  violet  beds 
in  the  deep  old  woods,  and  covered  them  over  like  a  careful 
mother ;  it  powdered  the  heads  of  the  cedars,  until  they  looked 
like  white-haired  giants,  and  wrapped  alike  the  graves  of  rich 
and  poor  in  shrouds  of  dazzling  whiteness. 

0,  very  impartial  were  those  same  little,  white,  feathery 
flakes,  that  came  dancing  down  at  the  bidding  of  the  storm, 
edging  alike  the  blue  cloth  cloak  of  Judge  Edmonds  and  the 
ragged  garments  of  the  beggar  with 

"  Ermine  too  dear  for  an  Earl." 


116         LKAVES  FROM  THE  TBKB  IGDKASYL. 

Then  they  made  a  league  with  that  cool-headed  old  tactician, 
the  north  wind,  and  together  they  went  skirring  through  the 
streets,  'heaving  up  embankments  here,  and  digging  trenches 
and  forming  curves  there,  rushing  round  corners,  to  attack 
stout,  rosy-cheeked  gentlemen,  who  fought  and  sputtered  and 
dashed  the  snow  from  their  eyebrows,  to  see  what  awaited 
them  next,  while  the  thinly-clad  shop-girls  drew  their  shawls 
closer  about  them,  and  scudded  in  troops,  like  little  snow- 
birds, close  under  the  lee  of  the  housed,  to  escape  their  bois- 
terous greetings.  In  the  space  of  an  hour  or  so  the  storm 
had  the  city  pretty  much  to  itself,  for  whoever  had  a  shelter 
was  glad  to  get  beneath  it,  and  stay  there. 

On  the  corner  of  C  and  D  streets  was  a  spacious  wholesale 
clothing  store,  upon  which,  in  hurrying  up  and  down  the 
streets,  after  the  last  stragglers,  the  storm  seemed  to  bestow 
particular  attention.  It  tried  to  shake  the  mahogany-cased 
windows,  and  find  some  crack  in  them,  or  in  the  heavily  pan- 
elled door,  by  which  it  could  gain  ingress ;  but,  baffled  here,  it 
contented  itself  with  wrapping  a  white  covering  over  the  gilded 
sign-board,  darkening  the  windows,  muffling  the  steps,  and 
piling  up  a  barricade  against  the  door,  as  if  it  said,  "  Nevei 
mind,  I  '11  be  ready  for  you  when  you  do  open  !  " 

Now,  it  was  very  provoking,  no  doubt,  but  none  of  these 
manoeuvres  seemed  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  Mr.  D. 
Orestes  Jimps,  the  owner  of  the  store.  All  the  clerks  had 
gone  to  tea ;  and,  while  waiting  their  return,  he  sat  before 
the  stove,  with  his  heels  resting  upon  a  high  stool,  rather 
above  the  level  of  his  head,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a  lamp- 
hook  in  the  wall,  as  a  kind  of  tether  to  .his  imagination,  as  he 
counted  up  the  profits  of  the  day's  sales,  —  a  very  necessary 
and  commendable  process,  seeing  next  day  was  New-year's, 
and  he  anticipated  several  extra  demands  upon  his  purse. 
Perhaps  we  should  not  be  far  from  the  truth,  if  we  said  that, 
at  the  same  time,  he  gave  a  sort  of  rough  guess  at  his  neigh- 
bor Jumper's  profits,  and  wondered  just  how  muck  and  what 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT.  117 

he  would  give  at  their  pastor's  donation  party  the  next  even- 
ing ;  for  Mr.  D.  Orestes  Jimps  did  not  like  to  be  cast  in  the 
shade  by  any  one,  especially  by  a  rival  house ;  besides,  we 
are  all,  at  times,  so  remarkably  disinterested,  that  we  take 
more  interest  in  other  people's  concerns  than  our  own. 

But,  hurrah  !  the  storm  has  triumphed  !  Through  the  open 
door  falls  the  barricade  of  snow,  followed  by  the  wind,  that 
sends  the  glittering  particles  dancing  through  the  whole  length 
of  the  store,  and  raises  such  a  commotion  among  the  various 
garments,  mentionable  and  unmentionable,  suspended  over- 
head, that  it  is  some  time  before  the  astonished  Mr.  Jimps  is 
aware  of  the  cause  of  this  disturbance. 

But  there  she  .stands,  —  a  little,  shrinking,  hollow-eyed 
girl,  with  a  cheek  almost  as  white  as  the  snow  matted  in 
her  abundant  hair,  and  clinging  to  the  folds  of  her  miserable 
dress. 

"  Well,  what 's  wanting,  my  girl  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Jimps,  as 
the  thin,  wan  face,  scarcely  higher  than  the  level  of  the 
counter,  was  turned  up  to  him,  with  a  timid,  appealing 
glance. 

"  Please,  sir,"  began  a  little,  trembling,  piping  voice,  "  I 
have  brought  some  shirts,  and  mother  .wants  to  know  if 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  let  her  have  the  money  for 
them." 

Mr.  Jimps  took  the  package  which  the  child  drew  from 
under  her  shawl,  and  deliberately  counted  the  coarse  gar- 
ments it  contained,  while  the  little  one  edged  timidly  towards 
the  stove. 

"  Three,  four,  five,  six.  Why,  child,"  exclaimed  the  gen- 
tleman, as  he  finished  counting,  "  how  is  this  ?  Here  is  but 
half  the  lot  we  gave  out  to  your  mother." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  child,  as  she  edged  back  to  her  first 
stand ;  "  mother  knew  that ;  but  little  Jennie  has  been  so  sick, 
sir,  that  we  could  not  get  any  more  done, ;  and  —  and  —  it  is 
so  cold,  and  the  c<»l  is  all  gone.  Mother  hoped,  sir,  you 


118         LEAVES  FROM  TUB  TREB  IGDRASYL. 

would  be  kind  enough  to  pay  her  for  these,  and  we  will  finish 
the  others  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"I  thought  your  mother  understood  our  terms.  I  told  her, 
when  she  took  the  work,  that  we  made  it  a  rule  to  pay  only 
when  the  lot  was  done,"  returned  Mr.  Jimps.  "  There  are 
plenty  of  people  glad  to  work  for  us  on  these  terms,  and  your 
mother  cannot  expect  us  to  make  an  exception  in  her  favor." 

"  But,  please,  sir,"  plead  the  little  one,  "  little  Jennie  is  so 
sick,  and  "  — 

But  Mr.  Jimps  did  not  stay  to  hear  her  out ;  for,  just 
at  that  moment,  the  outer  door  agdin  opened,  and  a  person 
entered,  who  slammed  it  to,  right  in  the  face  of  the  storm, 
and  began  to  stamp  his  boots  and  shake  his  garments  in  a 
way  that  gave  strong  proofs  of  their  firm  texture.  As  soon 
as  Mr.  Jimps  caught  sight  of  the  high  nose  that  peered  like  a 
projecting  battlement  over  the  folds  of  the  red  worsted  com- 
forter which  enveloped  the  lower  portion  of  the  new-comer's 
face,  he  sprang  round  the  counter,  and,  seizing  his  hand,  shook 
it  heartily,  as  he  exclaimed, 

"  Why,  Uncle  John  Markham!  where  did  you  come  from? 
Did  you  snow  down  ?  " 

"  No,  Dimmie,"  returned  the  old  man,  taking  off  his  low- 
crowned  hat,  and  shaking  a  miniature  snow-storm  from  its 
broad  brim  ;  "  but  I  'd  like  to  been  snowed  under.  Who  'd 
a  thought  it  would  have  come  by  such  handfuls  ?  I  told  mother, 
when  I  started,  I  guessed  there  would  be  more  snow  before  I 
got  back;  but  I  did  not  think  of  its  coming  so  like  a  judg- 
ment. Black  Simon  and  I  have  had  a  time  of  it,  I  tell  you, 
Dimmie.  Whew !  my  fingers  ache  like  the  toothache !  "  he 
added,  drawing  off  a  thick  pair  of  blue  and  white  yarn  mit- 
tens, and  spreading  his  hard  palms  to  the  fire. 

"  It  is  the  worst  storm  we  have  had  yet,"  returned  Mr. 
Jimps,  wincing  slightly  at  the  appellation  by  which  the  old 
man  addressed  him.  In  his  native  village,  he  had  always 
been  known  as  "  Dimmie  Jimps,"  it  being,a  sort  of  abbrevia- 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT.  119 

tion  of  the  classical  cognomen,  Demosthenes  Orestes,  bestowed 
upon  him  by  his  father,  which  he  had  ignored  ever  since  his 
establishment  in  the  city,  signing  his  name  D.  Orestes  Jimps, 
Esq.  But  he  knew  there  was  no  use  in  arguing  the  case  with 
Uncle  John.  He  would  always  remain  Dimmie,  with  him ; 
so  he  smoothed  his  brow,  and  said,  heartily  : 

"  Come,  Uncle  John,  take  a  seat  and  make  yourself  com- 
fortable, if  you  can,  until  some  of  the  boys  get  back  ;  then  \\~e 
will  go  up  to  the  house.  Julia  will  be  delighted  to  see  you. 
You  will  stay  over  to-morrow  night  with  us,  of  course.  To- 
morrow night  is  Mr.  E 's  donation  party,  and  you  must 

certainly  attend  that.  He  asks  after  you  always,  when  he 
calls."  Then,  chancing  to  let  his  eye  fall  on  the  waiting  child, 
whom  he  had  quite  forgotten,  he  said,  with  a  gesture  toward 
the  door : 

"  You  had  better  run  home,  little  girl.  Your  mother  knows 
my  terms,  —  can't  vary  for  any  one.  A  man  must  have  some 
rules,  and  stick  by  them,  if  he  intends  to  do  anything,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Uncle  John. 

"  Ay,  sound  doctrine  that,  Dimmie.  But  what  is  this  ? 
Who  could  send  a  child  out,  in  such  a  storm?"  said  the  old 
man,  hastily  rising,  and  striding  forward  to  open  the  door,  the 
knob  of  which  the  child  was  vainly  trying  to  turn.  "  There, 
run  home  little  girl,  if  you  don't  intend  to  be  buried,"  he 
cried ;  "  your  folks  are  crazy  to  send  you  out  in  such 
weather." 

For  a  second,  ere  she  crossed  the  threshold,  the  little  pale 
face  was  turned  up  to  his,  as  if  to  thank  him,  and  he  saw  that 
it  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  What,  what ! "  ho  muttered ;  and  was  about  to  follow 
her,  when  he  was  recalled  by  the  voice  of  Mr.  Jimps : 

"  Come  in,  uncle ;  you  will  catch  your  death  standing  in 
that  draft !  "  cried  the  little  man. 

"  Who  was  that  child,  Dimmie  ?  and  what  possessed  her 


120  LEAVES   FROM    THE    TREE   IGDRASYL. 

friends,  if  she  has  any,  to  send  her  out  in  such  a  storm  ? " 
asked  the  old  man,  as  he  again  seated  himself  by  the  fire. 

"  0,  she  don't  mind  it !  *  She  is  one  of  the  thousands  you 
will  find  in  the  city ;  one  scarcely  knows  who  or  what  they 
are.  Her^mother  came  here  for  work  ;  and,  as  she  was  rec- 
ommended by  one  ef  our  hands,  whom  we  could  trust,  we  let 
her  take  some.  I  should  think  I  had  heard  some  one  say  that 
her  husband  was  a  dissipated  sort  of  a  fellow.  The  city  is 
full  of  such  people." 

"  But  what  sent  her  here  to-day  ?  Do  you  owe  them  any- 
thing, Dimmie  ?  " 

"  Owe  them !  "  returned  Mr.  Jimps,  laughing.  "  You  must 
think  me  hard  run,  not  to  be  able  to  pay  for  half  a  dozen 
shirts.  I  always  make  it  a  rule  to  pay  for  each  lot  of  work 
when  it  is  brought  in  and  answers  inspection ;  and  that  is 
what  I  call  fair  on  all  sides.  But  this  woman  wants  me  to 
do  more  ;  she  has  sent  in  half  her  lot,  and  wants  me  to  pay 
her  for  these  before  the  rest  are  done." 

"  And  you  did  n't  do  it,  Dimmie  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  Not  I.  I  should  never  get  my  work  done  at  that  rate. 
If  she  does  not  like  the  terms,  she  must  look  elsewhere  for 
work." 

"  I  s'pose  there  are  people  who  would  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  have  done  it,  or,  perhaps,  given  her  a  little  some- 
thing out  of  their  own  pockets,"  observed  the  old  man,  watch- 
ing the  face  of  Mr.  Jimps  with  a  very  peculiar  expression. 

"  Yes,  and  foolish  enough  they  are,  as  you  say.  Now,  I 
claim  to  be  as  liberal  and  benevolent  as  most  men ;  but  I  act 
upon  system  in  this  as  well  as  everything  else.  I  pay  my 
taxes  promptly,  and  subscribe  libefally  to  several  benevolent 
societies;  besides,  my  wife  devotes  half  her  time  to  their 
management.  If  these  people  really  are  worthy,  and  need 
aid,  let  them  apply  to  some  of  these,  or  to  the  city  authority. 
Casual  charity  only  encourages  street-begging  and  idleness." 

"  But  —  but  —  I  s'pose  there  are  some  among  them  so 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT.  121 

proud  that  they  would  rather  starve  than  beg,"  returned  the 
old  man,  with  the  same  searching  glance.  "  I  dare  say  there 
are  a  good  many,  just  in  our  neighborhood,  at  home,  who 
would  rub  pretty  close  before  they  would  do  it." 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  You  would  be  surprised  at  the  degree  of 
pride  manifested  by  the  people  who  work  for  me,  though  many 
of  them  are  poor  as  Job.  These  people  are  doubtless  of  the 
same  stamp.  Lewis,"  he  added,  addressing  a  young  clerk, 
who  entered,  out  of  breath  with  facing  the  storm,  "  put  down 
those  half  dozen  shirts  to  the  credit  of  Mrs.  Ives." 

"  Miss  Sarah  Ives,  George  street  ?  "  queried  the  boy. 

"  No ;  Mrs.  Mary  Ives,  Bingham  Crossing,  York  road," 
was  the  reply,  as  Mr.  Jimps  deliberately  encased  his  dapper 
person  in  a  wadded  overcoat,  and  enveloped  his  throat  in  the 
voluminous  folds  of  a  costly  merino  scarf. 

While  he  was  drawing  on  his  overshoes,  his  guest  took  from 
his  pocket  a  large  pocket-book,  and  wrote  a  few  words  on  a 
blank  leaf. 

They  were  soon  ploughing  their  way  in  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Jimps'  residence,  Uncle  John  looking  the  storm  square  in  the 
face,  as  if  it  were  an  old  friend,  and  Mr.  Jimps  trying  to  give 
it  the  cut  by  turning  sideways.  It  bore  this  a  while ;  but,  at 
last,  as  they  turned  a  corner,  it  sprang  out  upon  him,  and, 
flapping  the  long  ends  of  his  scarf  in  his  face,  suddenly  lifted 
his  shining  beaver  from  his  head,  and  lodged  it  in  a  snow- 
bank, which  it  had  been  piling  up  right  under  the  windows  of 

Governor  B 's  mansion,  as  if  for  the  special  amusement 

of  a  group  of  curly-headed  children  and  a  lovely  young  lady, 
who  were  watching  the  process  with  delight. 

"  0,  if  it  had  only  happened  anywhere  else !  "  thought  Mr. 
Jimps,  as,  with  one  glance  at  the  mischievous  face  of  Miss 

Eva  B and  the  laughing  little  ones,  he  picked  up  his 

beaver,  and  disappeared  round  the  corner.     Uncle  John  fol 
lowed  with  steady  steps.     No  danger  of  the  storm's  playing 
tricks  with  his  apparel.     His  hat  was  jammed  dowr  upon  his 
11 


122  LEAVES  FBOil   THE  TREE  IGDBASYL. 

bald  crown,  as  if  he  meant  it  to  stay  there ;  and  we  have  a 
suspicion  that  he  rather  enjoyed  the  disasters  of  Mr.  Jimps. 

"I  say,  Dimmie,"  he  remarked,  seeing  that  gentleman 
pause  and  turn  his  back  to  the  storm  to  get  breath,  "  that 
little  girl  must  have  a  hard  time  of  it  getting  home,  won't 
she?" 

"  Yes,  her  people  were  crazy  to  send  her  out  at  such  a 
time.  Ugh  !  the  snow  almost  blinds  one !  " 

"  Very  likely,"  returned  the  old  man,  with  a  peculiar 
smile,  replying  to  the  first  part  of  Mr.  Jimps'  remark ;  "  poor 
people  are  apt  to  do  a  great  many  strange  things.  But  here 
we  are  at  the  door,  and  there  is  your  wife  at  the  window ;  " 
and,  with  a  nod  to  the  rather  pretty-looking  lady  who  looked 
down  upon  them,  the  old  man  followed  his  nephew  into  the 
house. 

Uncle  John  Markham  was  warmly  received  by  his  nephew's 
wife.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  humorist,  —  "  odd  as  Dick's  hat- 
band," the  people  said  in  his  village  (and,  by  the  way,  we 
should  very  much  like  to  know  in  what  the  peculiarity  of  the 
said  Richard's  hat-band  consisted).  "  Eccentric"  Mrs.  Jimps 
whispered  to  her  friends,  as  she  introduced  him ;  but  then  he 
was  rich  and  childless,  and  rich  folks  can  afford  to  be  "  odd." 

His  visits  were  ever  welcome  among  his  nephews  and  nieces, 
not  merely  because  of  his  wealth ;  for,  though  they  were  keen- 
sighted  business  people,  and  perhaps  did  not  entirely  put  that 
out  of  the  question,  yet  they  had  sense  enough  to  love  and 
respect  the  old  man  for  his  intrinsic  goodness. 

Tea  being  over,  and  little  Augustus  Adelmar,  Mr.  Jimps' 
son  and  heir,  having  been  sent  to  bed,  after  making  several 
journeys  to  "  Danbury  Cross  "  on  the  old  man's  foot,  the  con- 
versation turned  to  the  approaching  donation  party. 

"  Simpson  sent  home  the  stand  to-day,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Jimps,  turning  to  her  husband.  "It  is  a  love  of  a  thing. 

Uncle  John,  you  must  see  it,  — my  gift  for  Mrs.  E ,  our 

pastor's  wife.  I  do  not  believe  there  will  be  anything  half  so 


JOHN'S  VISIT.  123 

pretty  sent  in ;  "  and,  running  into  the  opposite  parlor,  she 
returned  with  a  beautiful  papier  macke  work-stand. 

"  Why,  it  is  a  pretty  thing  enough,"  said  the  old  man, 
looking  at  it  with  a  good  deal  of  interest,  as  his  niece  ex- 
plained the  material  and  the  process  of  manufacturing  it ; 
"  that  butterfly  hovering  over  the  rose,  there,  is  as  natural 
as  life.  But  what's  it  for,  Julia?  It  is  hardly  strong 
enough  to  hold  a  mouse.*' 

"  0,  it  will  hold  light  things ;  and,  then,  it  is  such  a  beau- 
tiful ornament  in  a  parlor !  " 

"And  what  might  it  have  cost,  niece ? "  he  asked. 

"  Only  twenty  dollars.  Orestes,  how  L  wish  your  vases 
had  been  sent  home,  so  that  Uncle  John  could  have  seen 
them,  too.-  They  are  such  beauties  —  the  real  Bohemian 
glass,  and  no  mistake." 

"  And  what  do  they  cost  ?  " 

"Twenty  more,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Well,  Dimmie,  you  said  you  was  liberal,  to-day,  and  I 
do  not  dispute  it ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me,  ckildren,  with  my 
old-fashioned  notions,  that  you  might  have  laid  out  your 
money  more  wisely,  considering  your  minister's  wife  and  chil- 
dren. But  you  mean  well,  doubtless,  and  cannot  fail  to  be 
benefited  by  it  yourselves,  whatever  your  friends  may  be ; 
for  no  one  ever  opened  their  purse-strings  out  of  kindness, 
without  being  the  better  for  it." 

"  In  that  case,  Uncle  John,  you  will  return  a  much  better 
man  than  you  came,  for  I  intend  to  make  a  draft  on  you," 
said  Julia,  blushing  and  laughing.  "  We  are  getting  up  a 
society  for  the  suppression  of  idolatry  among  the  Chinese  in 
California,  and  I  must  have  you  down  for  a  good  round 
sum." 

"  Stay  a  bit,  niece.  Chinese  —  I  heard  they  were  coming 
over  there  by  thousands,  but  I  don't  know  as  they  are  much 
worse  idolaters  than  our  folks  are  there.  Besides,  I  have 


124         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

one  or  two  claims  of  the  society  to  which  I  belong  to  settle, 
before  I  can  think  of  yours." 

"  Your  society !  Why,  I  did  not  know  as  you  belonged  to 
any  one,  uncle ! " 

"  You  were  mistaken,  then,"  returned  the  old  man,  gravely. 
"  For  many  years  I  have  been  a  member  of  the  oldest  society 
in  the  world,  —  the  same  of  which  our  Saviour  was  a  distin- 
guished member  while  on  earth,  —  the  Society  of  Human 
Brotherhood,  which  has  for  its  aim  and  object  all  the  poor, 
oppressed,  fallen  and  down-trodden  beings  upon  God's  earth. 
I  must  attend  to  this  first,  niece ;  and  then  I  will  see  about 
yours." 

There  was  silence  a  few  moments,  before  the  old  man,  who 
had  risen  and  walked  to  the  window,  added,  gayly  : 

"By  the  by,  children,  I  guess  I'll  just  step  round  to  the 
hotel,  and  take  a  look  at '  Black  Simon.' " 

"  Not  to-night,  —  you  surely  need  not  go  out  to-night," 
cried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jimps  in  the  same  breath. 

"Why  not?  .See,  it  has  stopped  snowing,  and  I  am  not 
quite  so  frail  as  Julia's  stand  there.  Simon  had  a  hard  time 
of  it  getting  here,  and  the  hostler  may  neglect  him,  poor  fel- 
low !  You  need  not  think  I  am  lost  if  I  am  not  back  in  an 
hour  or  two,"  he  added,  as  he  passed  through  the  hall ;  "  I 
may  find  some  old  friends  down  there,  and  chat  a  while." 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  Black  Simon  "  was  looked  after,  and  talked  to  for  a  few 
moments,  much  as  if  he  had  been  a  child ;  and  then,  instead 
of  returning  to  the  warm  sitting-room  of  the  hotel,  or  the 
elegant  parlor  of  Mr.  Jimps,  the  old  man  sturdily  ploughed 
his  way  along  the  snowy  streets,  until  he  reached  the  suburbs 
of  the  city. 

Here  he  slackened  his  steps,  and  paused  occasionally  to 
decipher,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lamps,  the  numbers  on  somi 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT.  125 

of  the  dilapidated  buildings  which  lined  the  street.  At  last 
he  approached  one,  from  which  issued  the  sounds  of  music 
and  dancing,  and  knocked  loudly  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  a  rosy-cheeked  Irish  girl,  in  a  gay  ball  costume  and  dirty 
white  slippers. 

"  Is  there  a  family  of  the  name  of  Ives  living  in  this 
house  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"Yes  there  be  —  the  poor  craythers;  but- not  in  there, 
sir,"  was  the  reply,  as  she  saw  Mr.  Markham  about  to  lay 
hold  of  the  latch  of  a  door  near  by.  "That  is  Teddy 
McGruire's  room.  The  Ives'  are  above,  sir.  I  will  be  afther 
showin'  ye  the  way,  an'  ye  please."  v 

Uncle  John  followed  the  girl  up  the  gloomy,  dirty  stairs, 
asking  by  the  way  (for  the  old  man  was  a  bit  of  a  Yankee) 
what  was  the  cause  of  the  festivity  below. 

"A  wedding,  sir.  Mikey  Flaherty  is  married  to  Tim 
Doolan's  Bridget,  the  night,"  returned  the  girl,  with  a 
smile ;  adding,  as  she  pointed  to  a  door  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  passage,  "  It 's  there  ye  will  find  them  ye  seek." 

The  old  man  turned  to  thank  her,  but  she  was  already 
half  way  down  stairs,  stepping  to  the  lively  measure  of  an 
Irish  jig;  so  he  walked  on,  and  knocked  gently  at  the  door 
which  the  girl  had  pointed  out.  It  was  opened  by  the  same 
pale-faced  child  whom  he  had  seen  in  his  nephew'^store. 
She  looked  up  to  him  with  a  quick  glance  of  recognition, 
singled  with  surprise,  and  then  glanced  toward  her  mother, 
who  sat  leaning  over  a  miserable  bed,  on  which  lay  a  little 
child,  over  whose  face  the  ashen  hue  of  death  was  already 
stealing.  Seeing  that  her  mother  did  not  observe  the  stran- 
ger, she  said : 

"  It 's  the  gentleman  who  opened  the  door  for  me  to-day, 
mother." 

Thus  disturbed,  the  woman  looked  up,  questioningly, 
almost  impatiently,  at  the  intruder. 

"  Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  began  the  old  man,  in  an  apologetic 
11* 


126          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

J 

tonev  but  deliberately  shutting  the  door  behind  him.  "  I  fear 
I  intrude ;  but  the  little  girl  is  right.  I  am  glad  to  find  she 
got  home  safe.  My  nephew,  Mr.  Jimps,  did  not  quite 
understand  the  child,  it  seems ;  and  I  have  come  to  make  it 
all  straight."  And  he  handed  out  a  five-dollar  bill  as  he 
spoke. 

The  w,0man  took  the  bill,  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and 
returned  it  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  I  cannot  change  it,  sir.  I  have  not  a  cent  of  money  in 
the  world." 

"It's  all  right,  ma'am.  I  don't  want  any  change  —  I 
mean  Mr.  Jimps  don't;  he  isn't  at  all  particular  —  that  is 
—  I  say  keep  it,  ma'am;  you  need  it  all,  and  more  too,  in 
such  weather  as  this." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  with  mingled  wonder  and  sus- 
picion. At  length  she  said  : 

"  There  is  some  mistake,  sir.  Mr.  Jimps  is  a  very  partic- 
ular man.  He  owes  me  but  one  dollar,  and  it  may  bring 
both  of  us  into  trouble  if  I  keep  the  money." 

"  Take  it,  I  say.  Zounds !  have  not  I  a  right  to  do  as  I 
please  with  my  —  I  mean,  has  n't  Mr.  Jimps  a  right  to  do 
what  he  pleases  with  his  money  ?  Take  it,  and  make  your- 
selves comfortable." 

The^  woman  waited  to  be  urged  no  more;  she  eagerly 
clutched  the  money,  and  burst  into  tears,  as  she  cried : 

"  The  blessing  of  those  ready  to  perish  be  upon  you  both, 
sir.  I  should  not  have  sent  out  to-day  ;  but  we  have  neither 
food  nor  fuel,  and  little  Jennie  dying !  " 

"  Have  you  no  one  whom  you  can  send  out  after  food  and 
fuel  ?  "  asked  the  old  man,  with  a  glance  toward  the  further 
corner  of  the  room,  where,  from  beneath  a  pale  of  rags,  came 
the  heavy  breathing  of  a  man. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  woman,  as  with  a  troubled  expression 
her  eye  followed  his ;  "  but  William,  poor  fellow,  is  not  well. 
He  is  worn  out,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sigh,  "  with  care,  and 


JOHN'S  VISIT.  127 

./ 

want,  and  trouble.  If  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  stay  with 
Ellen,  sir,  I  wili  run  down  myself,  and  get  what  we  want. 
It 's  only  two  doors  from  here,"  she  added,  seeing  the  old 
man  about  to  remonstrate. 

There  was  something  in  her  manner  that  recalled  to  th« 
old  man  Mr.  Jimps'  remark  about  her  husband's  intemperate 
habits.  She  fears  to  trust  him  with  the  money,  and  perhaps 
she  is  right,  thought  he,  as  he  drew  the  scanty  covering  over 
the  dying  child,  and  began  to  look  about  for  something  to 
kindle  a  fire  with,  against  the  mother's  return. 

The  little  girl  laid  down  the  coarse  shirt-sleeve  she  was 
stitching,  and  came  to  his  aid ;  but  they  could  find  nothing 
but  a  few  bits  of  paper. 

"  That  is  Willie's  kite,  sir,"  whispered  she,  as  the  old  man 
laid  his  hand  on  that  article.  "  He  brought  it  with  him  when 
we  moved  from  the  country ;  but  I  don't  know  as  he  will 
mind  it  much  if  we  do  take  it,  if  he  can  only  be  warm." 

As  she  spoke,  a  curly  head  peered  out  from  beneath  the 
rags  in  the  corner,  and,  presently,  a  little  boy  of  five  or  six 
years  old  crept  to  her  side. 

"  Willie,  don't  wake  father !  "  she  whispered,  hushing  his 
exclamation  of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  the  stranger.  "We  are 
going  to  have  a  fire,  and  something  to  eat,  Willie,"  she  added. 
"Mother  has  gone  after  the  things.  Mr.  Jimps  sent  the 
money  by  this  gentleman,  and  now  it 's  all  right." 

The  little  boy's  sleepy  eyes  flew  wide  open  at  the  mention 
of  food  and  fire,  and  he  whispered,  with  a  shy  look  at  Uncle 
John : 

"  But  will  he  take  us  away  from  this  hateful  place,  sister, 
and  give  us  dinners  every  day,  just  as  we  used  to  have  them 
in  the  country?  When  I  was  so  hungry,  and  cried,  last 
night,  you  said  may-be  some  one  would  bring  me  a  whole 
pocket  full  of  cakes,  if  I  would  go  to  sleep.  Has  he  brought 
them,  sissie?" 

"  Mother  has  gone  after  them,"  said  the  little  girl,  while 


128 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 


Uncle  John  took  him  upon  his  knee,  and  warmed  his  little 
red  hands  between  his  great  palms.  Ellen  drew  close  to  him, 
too,  and  he  took  her  on  the  other  knee,  as  he  asked, 

"  How  long  has  the  little  one  been  sick,  dear  ?  " 

"  Mother  says  she  has  never  been  well ;  but  she  ran  about 
'and  played  with  Willie  and  me,  until  we  came  here.  Ever 
since,  she  has  been  poorly,  and  we  have  had  to  hold  her  all 
the  while.  Sometimes  she  laughs  when  I  show  her  my  rose- 
bush, and  puts  up  her  hands  to  catch  the  leaves.  Biddy 
Flaherty  gave  it  to  me,  sir ;  btrt,  lately,  she  does  not  seem  to 
notice  anything,  and  mother  thinks  she  will  die." 

"  And  then  she  will  go  up  to  God,  away  above  the  clouds, 
where  the  cold  weather  never  comes,"  said  little  Willie,  lift- 
ing his  sober  eyes  to  Mr.  Markham's  face.  "  It 's  a  nice  place 
up  there,  sir.  Would  n't  you  like  to  go  too  ?  " 

Before  the  old  man  could  reply,  the  mother  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  a  man  bearing  food  and  coals.- 

We  do  not  know  whose  pleasure  was  the  greatest,  the 
hungry-eyed  children's,  as  they  ate  their  food  by  the  glowing 
fire,  or  old  John  Markham's,  as  he  sat  by  and  looked  on.  We 
think  the  children's,  however ;  for  he  could  not  but  be  sad- 
dened by  the  tale  which  he  heard  from  the  lips  of  the  poor 
mother,  as  she  hung  over  her  child.  It  was  the  old  story,  which 
has  blotted  so  many  of  the  fair  pages  of  the  book  of  life. 
Poverty  had  followed  sickness  ;  thrown  out  of  work,  strang- 
,ers  in  a  strange  place,  disappointed  and  despairing,  the  hus- 
band and  father  had  yielded  to  temptation,  and  tasted  of  the 
accursed  cup,  until  he  no  longer  cared  for  aught  save  the 
gratification  of  his  brutal  appetite.  For  some  time  past  they 
had  depended  solely  upon  the  earnings  of  the  mother  and 
little  Ellen  for  support ;  and  these  had,  of  late,  been  much 
curtailed  by  the  illness  of  little  Jennie.  "  I  could  not  let  her 
lie  and  die  before  my  eyes,  even  though  we  were  all  starved," 
said  the  weeping  mother. 

Uncle  John  Markham  was  not  an  eloquent  man  —  he  never 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  VISIT.  129 

made  a  speech  in  his  life ;  yet,  somehow,  the  words  which  he 
spoke  to  that  fallen,  discouraged  husband,  that  night,  awoke 
feelings  of  hope,  and  courage,  and  self-respect  in  the  poor  fel- 
low's heart,  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 


CHAPTER    III. 

It  was  quite  late  when  the  old  man  reached  his  nephew's 
house  that  night,  and  Mr.  Jimps  and  his  wife  were  too  sleepy 
to  ask  many  questions ;  but  next  morning,  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  they  were  disposed  to  be  quite  curious  on  the  subject 
of  his  late  hours. 

"Fie,  Uncle  John,"  began  Mrs.  Jimps,  smiling,  as  she 
handed  him  his  coffee ;  "  this  never  will  do.  I  shall  have  to 
write  to  Aunt  Sarah  about  it." 

"  I  think  I  shall  write  to  her  myself,  this  morning,"  re- 
turned the  old  man,  in  the  same  light  tone. 

"But,  uncle,  these  must  be  very  interesting  people,  these 
friends  of  yours,  to  keep  you  up  so  late,"  said  Mr.  Jimps. 

"  They  are ;  so  much  so,  Dimmie,  that  I  must  introduce 
them  to  you.  Will  you  call  with  me  some  time  in  the  course 
of  the  day?"  » 

"  With  great  pleasure,  uncle." 

It  being  New-Year's  day,  however,  Mr.  Jimps,  amid  calls 
and  business,  quite  forgot  Uncle  John's  proposal  —  the  more 
readily  as  that  old  gentleman  was  absent  most  of  the  day  on 
business  of  his  own,  and  it  was  not  until  he  was  about  to 
dress  for  the  donation  party  in  the  evening  that  the  old  man 
saw  fit  to  remind  him  of  his  engagement. 

"  Why,  it  is  too  late,  now,  Uncle  John.  Julia  has  already 
commenced  dressing  for  the  party,"  said  the  little  man. 

"Well,  I  can't  go  to  this  party  with  you  until  I  have 
called  on  these  friends,  that 's  certain,"  said  the  old  man. 
'  If  you  are  minded  to  go  with  me,  I  '11  have  Black  Simon 


130         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

and  the  sleigh  at  the  door  by  the  time  you  are  dressed,  and 
we  can  be  there  and  back  again  by  the  time  Julia  gets  rigged, 
if  she  is  like  most  women-folks." 

Black  Simon  was  at  the  door  in  time,  and  bore  them  with 
flying  steps  along  the  crowded  streets.  On,  on  they  went,  past 
brilliantly  lighted  parlors,  from  whence  came  the  sounds  of 
music  and  laughter  —  on,  to  where  the  streets  began  to  nar- 
row, and  the  lights  to  dwindle,  until,  with  a  suddenness  that 
almost  took  Mr.  Jimps'  breath  from  his  body,  the  old  man 
drew  up  before  a  rickety  old  building. 

"  Uncle  John,  you  must  have  mistaken  the  place !  your 
friends  surely  cannot  live  here  !  "  cried  Mr.  Jimps,  from  be- 
neath the  many  folds  of  his  scarf. 

"  May  be  so  —  we  '11  see,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  eld  man 
sprang  out,  and,  taking  a  rope  from  the  sleigh,  fastened  Black 
Simon  securely  to  a  post. 

It  was  too  cold  for  Mr.  Jimps  to  remonstrate ;  his  teeth 
chattered  and  his  scarf  was  almost  frozen  to  his  lips,  even 
then ;  so,  stepping  carefully  in  his  dainty,  glistening  boots,  he 
followed  the  old  man  through  the  gloomy  hall  and  up  the 
dirty  stairs.  Mr.  Jimps  was  a  somewhat  fastidious  person, 
and  might,  more  than  once,  have  taken  exception  to  the 
various  smells  that,  coming  from  the  different  rooms,  seemed 
to  congregate  in  that  hall,  had  he  not,  fortunately,  been  too 
well  wrapped  up  to  be  aware  of  them. 

Uncle  John  rapped  softly  at  the  Ives'  door,  and,  after 
waiting  a  few  moments,  as  no  one  came,  opened  it  himself. 
One  glance  around  the  apartment  taught  him  the  cause  of 
that  silence.  Near  the  stove,  with  his  little  boy  in  his  arms, 
who  was  sobbing  in  that  peculiar  spasmodic  manner  that 
indicates  the  utter  exhaustion  of  the  physical  frame,  sat 
William  Ives,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bed  which  had 
been  arranged  as  decently  as  possible  to  receive  the  dead 
body  of  little  Jennie.  The  mother  had  done  all  her  scanty 
means  allowed.  She  had  parted  the  soft  hair  on  the  little 


UNCLB  JOHN'S  VISIT.  131 

brow,  straightened  the  shrunken  limbs,  and  robed  them  in  a 
pretty  white  frock,  the  last  relic  of  happier  days.  The  dainty 
edgings  with  which  it  was  trimmed  were  in  strange  contrast 
with  the  miserable  bed-coverings  —  edgings  wrought  by  her 
busy  fingers  in  those  happy  days  when  a  mother's  glad  antici- 
pations first  stirred  her  heart.  Then  she  had  flung  herself  on 
her  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and,  with  her  face  buried  in 
the  clothes,  neither  wept  nor  moved. 

The  grave-eyed  Ellen  stooped  over  the  bed,  and  was  trying 
to  place  a  poor,  sickly-looking  rose  in  the  cold  hands  of  the 
little  one.  Uncle  John  glanced  at  the  bush  she  had  showed 
him  the  night  before,  and  he  knew  at  once  from  whence  it 
came.  It  was  her  all,  poor  thing ! 

She  was  the  first  to  observe  their  entrance,  and  soon  both 
parents  were  mingling  words  of  deep  gratitude  with  their 
tears. 

"  I  shall  never,  never  forget  your  kindness,  sir,  to  the  day 
I  die ! "  exclaimed  the  mother,  turning  to  Mr.  Jimps.  "  Much 
as  we  needed  the  money,  starving  as  we  were,  we  thought 
not  less  of  your  confidence  in  us  than  we  did  of  that.  It 
was  so  kind,  so  noble  in  you,  to  trust  us  !  But  you  shall  be 
repaid,  sir ;  William  and  I  are  determined  to  do  it,  if  we 
work  our  fingers  to  the  bone !  And  this  gentleman,  to  come, 
as  he  did,  through  the  snow  to  aid  us  !  0,  how  can  we  ever 
be  grateful  enough  ?  " 

"My  kindness  —  repay  me — you  here!"  exclaimed  the 
bewildered  Mr.  Jimps,  turning  to  Uncle  John,  and  rapidly 
unwinding  the  folds  of  his  scarf,  as  if  pressed  for  breath. 

"  Yes,  Dimmie,  I  was  certain  you  did  not  quite  understand 
the  errand  of  that  little  girl,  yesterday,  so  I  followed  her 
home,  and  settled  your  bill  myself.  It  was  well  I  did,  for  the 
poor  things  needed  it  very  much." 

"  Save  a  bit  of  bread  for  the  children,  and  a  spoonful  of 
milk  for  —  for  "  —  and  the  poor  mother  glanced  sadly  at  the 


132         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TBEB  IGDRASYL. 

white-robed  little  figure  on  the  bed,  —  "for  her,  sir,  we  had 
not  tasted  food  for  two  days." 

Mr.  Jimps  was  neither  an  unjust  nor  hard-hearted  man ; 
he  had  simply  been  guided  by  the  current  custom  of  the  day ; 
and,  when  he  had  subscribed  his  quota  to  any  benevolent  ob- 
ject, allowed  himself  to  consider  his  responsibility  at  an  end. 
Now,  a  new  light  broke  in  upon  him ;  he  turned  to  his  old 
relative,  and  said,  earnestly  : 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Uncle  John  !  you  could  not  have 
done  me  a  kinder  deed;  or,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  taught  me  a  better  lesson.  It  is  one  which  I  shall  never 
forget." 

And,  to  do  Mr.  Jimps  justice,  he  never  did.  He  told  the 
story  to  Julia  when  they  got  home,  and  bravely  took  his  share 
of  the  blame,  while  the  tears  gathered  in  her  pretty  eyes, 
and  she  almost  forgot  her  present  and  the  donation  party,  in 
her  interest  in  the  Iveses. 

They  assisted  the  father  in  finding  employment,  aided  and 
encouraged  him  in  his  struggles  to  overcome  his  evil  habits, 
and  even  did  not  grumble  when  Uncle  John  took  little  Ellen 
Ives  to  live  with  him  and  Aunt  Sally,  and  be  a  daughter  to 
them  in  their  old  age,*though  they  knew  that  the  inheritance 
of  their  darling  Augustus  Adelmar  would  be  much  curtailed 
by  the  deed. 


AN  INCIDENT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE 


Ernst  1st  das  Lcben. 

ABOUT  midway  between  Sachem's  Head  and  Double  Beach, 
those  well-known  watering  places  on  the  Connecticut  shore,  a 
small  cove  or  creek  laps,  like  a  silver  tongue,  up  into  the 
main  land ;  and  the  waters,  as  if  weary  of  the  perpetual  strife 
and  moaning  seaward,  cling  close  to  the  shore  in  little  curves 
and  dents,  and  put  out  slender  silver  arms  among  the  coarse, 
green  sedges  of  the  marshes,  as  if  seeking  for  that  inland 
quiet  which  it  is  their  destiny  never  to  attain. 

It  is  a  quiet  bit  of  water  —  that  small  cove,  set  in  a  frame 
of  white,  wave-ribbed  sand,  backed  by  a  circlet  of  houses,  the 
green,  rank  marshes,  and  a  low  range  of  broken  upland, 
scarcely  worthy  of  the  name  of  hills,  but  sufficient  to  shut  off 
all  objects  landward,  save  a  blue,  hazy  line  in  the  distance, 
which  indicates  the  outline  of  the  Tetoket  range  of  hills. 

But  seaward  roll  ceaselessly  the  blue  waves  of  the  Sound, 
and,  stretching  along  at  the  distance  of  from  one  half  mile  to 
some  four  or  five  miles  from  shore,  are  scattered  a  dozen  or 
more  islands. 

"  Moles  that  dot  the  dimpled  bosom  of  the  sunny,  summer  sea  ;  " 

some,  at  high  water,  mere  hummocks  of  rock  and  sand,  over- 
run by  rock-pear,  a  species  of  cactus,  bearing  blossoms  of  deli- 
cate yellow,  with  here  and  there  a  stunted  pine ;  others  long, 
low,  barren  reaches  of  sand,  easy  of  access,  and  therefore  the 
chosen  locations  of  "  fish-houses,"  with  their  accompanying 
12 


134         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDBASYL. 

reds,  great  clumsy  machines,  which,  -with  the  salty,  white 
seine,  stretched  over  their  long  arms,  remind  one  of  giants 
ready  to  do  battle  with  the  storms ;  and  some  few  of  the 
larger  rock-bound  nooks  of  greenery,  where  the  whortleberry 
and  the  raspberry  thrive  in  profusion,  and  the  whisper- 
ing pines  and  ancient  bass-woods  shelter,  summer  after 
summer,  gay  parties  of  pleasure-seekers,  old  and  young. 

Beyond  these  the  view  is  unbroken,  save  when,  on  a  clear, 
sunny  day,  the  shores  of  Long  Island  loom  faintly  through  the 
distance,  golden,  azure,  and  pearl-hued,  like  the  walls  of  some 
enchanted  city.  Many  and  many  a  time,  when  a  child,  have 
I  watched  these  shores  from  the  wooded  hillside  pasture  above 
our  old  homestead,  and  thought  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  with 
its  walls  of  precious  stones,  and  its  gates  of  pearl,  where  there 
is  no  more  night. 

These  few  islands  are  not  without  their  legendary  lore,  as 
every  one  is  aware  who  has  ever  been  honored  with  a  seat  in 
the  stern  of  an  old  fisherman's  boat,  when  he  pulled  off,  in  the 
gray  dawn  or  evening  twilight,  to  visit  his  lobster-pots,  or 
has  shared  his  lunch  with  one  on  the  "  outer  reef,''  when 
hunger  grew  too  keen  even  for  the  patience  of  a  fisherman  — 
legends  of  buccaneers  and  smugglers ;  and,  sooth  to  say,  the 
initials  of  Captain  Kyd,  with  the  date  of  1687,  cut  in  the  solid 
rock  on  the  island  that  bears  his  name,  and  sworn  to  as  authen- 
tic by  the  "  oldest  inhabitant,"  gives  some  coloring  to  the 
former,  to  say  nothing  of  the  great  cavity  excavated  in  the 
rock,  and  known  as  the  famous  captain's  "  punch-bowl." 

But,  whatever  these  islands  might  have  been  in  former  times, 
they  are  noted  now  only  as  pleasant  places  for  pic-nics,  and, 
last,  but  by  no  means  least,  as  the  best  fishing-grounds  in  the 
region ;  and  the  above  description,  we  trust,  will  recall  to  more 
than  one  reader  the  long  summer  days  when,  with  some  silent, 
grim-visaged  old  fisherman  by  his  side,  he  sat  in  the  rocking 
boat,  ands  hand-over-hand,  drew  in  his  line  with  its  flounder* 


AN   INCIDENT   ON   THE  SEA-SHORE.  135 

ing,  fluttering  prey,  or,  forgetful  of  his  sport,  lay  musing  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  until 

"  The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 
In  the  red  west," 

A 

and  lent  heart  and  eye  and  soul  to  the  scene,  until  life,  with 
its  turmoils  and  bitter  strivings,  seemed  foreign  and  accidental, 
and  he  felt,  with  the  Lotus  Eaters, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm." 

The  hamlet  itself  is  small,  and,  though  boasting  a  hotel  duly 
graced  with  veranda  and  piazza,  almost  every  house  is  opened 
in  the  summer  time  as  a  boarding  or  lodging  house,  and  is 
generally  well  filled,  not,  of  course,  by  the  most  fashionable, 
but  by  quiet  country  parties  —  people  of  straitened  means, 
with  pale,  sickly-looking  children  —  stout,  middle-aged  gentle- 
men, who  come  there  because  their  fathers  did  before  them,  who 
swear  at  the  new-fangled  cookery  at  the  "  Head  "  or  "  Beach," 
where  they  go  occasionally  to  dine  with  a  friend,  pride  themselves 
on  knowing  the  best  fishing-grounds,  call  the  old  boatmen  by 
the  soubriquets  which  each  usually  bears  in  such  a  place,  and 
make  a  great  impression  upon  new  comers,  especially  women 
and  children.  Add  to  these  some  dozen  gentlemen  from  all 
quarters,  amateur  fishermen,  genuine  lovers  of  the  hook  and 
line,  and  you  have  a  sample  of  the  "  company  "  which  most 
does  "  congregate  "  at  the  Cove. 

As  to  the  inhabitants  proper,  they  are  an  amphibious  race, 
living  equally  well  on  land  or  water,  keen,  shrewd  observers 
of  character,  not  a  little  given  to  "  taking  in  "  men  as  well  as 
fish,  obsequious  and  obliging  enough  to  strangers,  but  noto- 
riously quarrelsome  among  themselves. 

I  know  not  whether  animals  of  amphibious  habits  are 
more  irascible  and  belligerent  than  others ;  but  the  bipeds 
of  these  hamlets  are  invariably  given  to  infirmities  of  tern- 


136          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IODRASYL. 

per,  and  their  chief  notion  of  liberty  seems  to  be  the  right  of 
"  going  to  law." 

Some  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune  to  spend  some  weeks  in 
this  place.  It  was  in  the  height  of  "  the  season,"  and  the  old 
farm-house  of  our  landlord,  Mr.  B ,  was  crowded  with  board- 
ers, who  presented  the  usual  variety  of  character.  Among  them 
were  three  who  interested  me  exceedingly.  Two  of  these  were  a 
mother  and  daughter  —  quiet,  reserved  people,  whose  gar- 
ments of  plain,  deep  mourning  served  to  confirm  the  rumor 
that  they  were  a  minister's  widow  and  child.  The  mother 
looked  like  one  who  bore  the  burden  of  some  unspoken  grief; 
and  this  was  in  part  explained  when  one  looked  on  the  small, 
delicate  figure  of  her  daughter,  and  noticed  the  deformity 
of  the  spine  between  the  shoulders,  which  no  art  of  dress 
could  wholly  conceal.  They  never  mingled  with  the  boarders 
in  the  common  room  er  on  the  lawn,  but  wandered,  hand  in 
hand,  alone  upon  the  beach,  or  sat  by  the  open  windows  of 
their  room  (which  was  divided  from  my  own  only  by  a  thin 
pine  partition),  reading,  sometimes  the  poete,  Milton  or 
Wordsworth,  but  oftener  from  the  Bible,  the  sublime  strains 
of  David  and  Isaiah,  or  the  burning  words  of  Paul.  The 
landlord  called  the  mother  Mrs.  Davenport,  and  the  latter 
addressed  the  child  as  Bertha,  and  that  was  all  I  knew  of 
them. 

The  other  person,  whose  presence  was  food  for  my  busy 
mind,  was  Adrian  Vannesse,  a  gentleman  of  some  thirty-five 
-years ;  at  least,  so  I  guessed,  but  he  might  have  had  a  dozen 
years  more  or  less,  for  his  face  and  figure  were  cast  in  that 
grand,  noble,  almost  severe  mould,  upon  which  time  seems  to 
leave  no  impress. 

He  proved  to  be  a  former  acquaintance  and  fellow-traveller 
of  my  dear  charge  and  young  relative,  Walter  Aynton.  They 
had  met,  a  winter  or  two  previous,  in  Cuba,  and  now  renewed 
their  acquaintance  with  pleasure.  Indeed,  Walter  was  de- 
lighted with  this  rencontre,  and  enthusiastic  in  hw  praises  of 


AN  INCIDENT   ON   THE   SEA-SHORE.  137 

liis  friend,  and  not  without  reason ;  for  Vannessc  attached 
himself  to  our  party,  and  I  soon  found  that,  to  the  accomplish- 
ments and  varied  knowledge  of  the  man  of  the  world,  he 
united  rare  scholarly  attainments,  habits  of  deep,  original 
thought,  an  earnest  love  for  the  truth,  and  that  rare  and  re- 
sistless individuality  which  wins  and  commands  at  the  same 
time.  Tenderness  equal  to  a  woman's,  too,  I  soon  felt  him  to 
possess,  when  he  took  my  young  cousin  under  his  charge,  and 
made  my  office  of  nurse  almost  a  sinecure.  But  with  all 
these  rare  qualities,  combined  with  wealth  and  that  personal 
presence  which  is  better  than  beauty,  I  felt  that  Adrian  Van- 
nesse  lacked  something.  I  could  not  watch  him  and  Walter 
long  together,  without  feeling  that  the  slender  boy-student, 
with  his  pale  cheek  and  sunken  eye,  passing  so  slowly,  yet,  aa 
my  heart  told  me,  so  surely  away  from  earth,  was  far  the 
richer  and  wiser  of  the  two,  for  Adrian  was  an  infidel. 

Something  —  I  know  not  what  —  but  something  in  his 
early  experience  had  come  to  give  strength  and  depth  to  those 
doubts  that  sooner  or  later  beset  such  earnest,  inquiring  na- 
tures as  his,  and  he  had  taken  refuge  in  a  refined  species  of 
materialism.  This  knowledge  was  an  inference  drawn  from  a 
series  of  incidental  remarks,  rather  than  from  any  open  state- 
ment of  his  own ;  for  he  was  no  vulgar  asserter  of  his  creed, 
no  Jesuitical  proselyter,  bent  upon  bringing  every  one  to  his 
views. 

To  Walter  Aynton,  pain  and  illness  had  been  the  angel 
with  which  he  had  wrestled,  like  Jacob  of  old,  until  he  had 
obtained  the  blessing,  the  unspeakable  blessing  of  perfect  faith 
and  trust  in  God.  Thus  it  was,  in  all  our  conversations  on 
life  and  life's  ends,  that  all  that  seemed  dark  and  intricate 
and  contradictory,  Walter  trusted  to  God,  certain  that  in  the 
life  beyond  it  would  all  be  made  clear  in  the  "  brightness 
of  the  everlasting  light."  But  I  could  read  no  corresponding 
faith  in  the  dark  eyes  of  Yannesse  —  no  glow  of  hope  lit  up 
the  calm,  stern  features  of  his  grandly-chiselled  face. 
12* 


138          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

One  glorious  day,  as  we  sat  beneath  the  shade  trees  on  the 
lawn,  Adrian  read,  in  soft,  deep  tones,  that  most  musical,  most 
melancholy,  because  most  hopeless,  of  all  Tennyson's  poems, 
the  "  Lotus  Eaters; "  and  as  he  closed  he  repeated,  more  to 
himself  than  us,  and  as  if  in  answer  to  some  query  of  his 
own  mind : 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death  ; 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath  — 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars, 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot  stars  ;" 

then  added,  slowly,  "  And  this  is  the  sum  of  life !  " 

There  was  something  so  sad,  so  inexpressibly  hopeless,  in 
his  voice,  that  for  a  brief  moment  it  did  seem  that  this  was 
indeed  all ;  then  a  bright  glow  lit  up  Walter's  pale  cheek,  and 
he  said : 

"  Not  so,  dear  Vannesse.  Old  Ulysses  teaches  a  higher, 
better  doctrine  than  that,  heathen  though  he  be ! " 

And,  taking  the  book  from  Adrian's  hand,  he  read  the  no- 
ble poem  that  bears  the  name  of  the  sage  of  Ithaca  —  that 
poem  so  replete  with  kingly  dignity,  self-conscious  power, 
melancholy  fortitude,  and  manly  self-reliance,  softened  and 
beautified  by  the  memory  of  joys  and  trials  long  since  "  lived 
down,"  but  which  have  made  him 

"  Strong  to  will, 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 

Vannesse  did  not  reply  for  some  moments ;  and  Walter, 
perchance  mistaking  the  cause  of  his  silence,  said, 'reaching 
out  a  thin  hand  that  was  instantly  folded  in  that  of  his  friend : 

"  Forgive  me,  Adrian.     I  have  lived  fewer  years  than  you 
in  number;  but  suffering,  though  bitter,  is  a  rare  teacher 
and  it  seems  to  me  uncommonly  cowardly,  so  to  speak,  to 
doubt  the  existence  or  the  goodness  of  God." 


AN   INCIDENT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE.  189 

"  I  do  not  doubt  the  existence  of  a  First  Cause,  Provi- 
dence, Creator,  God — by  whatever  name  you  choose  to 
designate  it,"  began  Vannesse,  slowly.  "  He  must  be  an  idiot 
who  does  that.  But  what  is  this  speck  of  a  world  to  an  infi- 
nite being  such  as  we  conceive  him  ?  What  are  we,  that  he 
should  stoop  to  interfere  with  our  affairs,  or  take  note  of  our 
trivialities  ?  Your  old  Syriac  Job  felt  this  keenly,  when  he 
exclaimed,  '  What  is  man,  that  thou  shouldst  magnify  him ; 
that  thou  shouldst  set  thy  heart  upon  him  ;  that  thou  shouldst 
visit  him  morning  and  evening,  and  try  him  every  moment  ? ' 
And  as  to  his  goodness  and  benevolence,  look  yonder," —  and, 
by  a  glance,  he  directed  us  to  where  the  slight  figure  of  Ber- 
tha Davenport  was  slowly  toiling  up  from  the  beach,  — "  there 
is  an  argument  to  the  point.  What  has  that  young  girl  done, 
to  be  thus  cursed  from  her  birth  ?  Endowed,  if  her  face  does 
not  belie  her,  with  all  woman's  restless  yearning. for  compan- 
ionship, love,  and  yet  shut  off,  by  that  organic  curse,  from 
all  but  woman's  sorrows.  Think  you  her  unbiased,  verdict 
would  say  much  for  his  goodness?  " 

For  a  moment  Walter's  face  was  troubled;  then,  as  he 
caught  the  love-lighted  glance  which  .the  girl  lifted  towards 
the  window  where  her  mother  sat,  and  saw  the  spiritual  ex- 
pression of  the  small,  sweet  face,  his  own  lighted  up,  and,  ris- 
ing and  laying  his  hand  on  Adrian's  shoulder,  he  said,  ear- 
nestly : 

"  Indeed,  I  do  think  so,  my  friend.     Once,  this  same  thing 

would  have  troubled  me ;  but  now  I  know,  Adrian ;  for, 

• 

'  Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  life  is  perfected  by  death.'  " 

Chance,  as  he  would  call  it,  gave  Adrian  Vannesse  an 
opportunity  to  ask  these  questions  himself  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days,  as  the  incident  I  am  about  to  relate  will  show. 

It  was  towards  the  last  of  August,  when,  after  several 
weeks  of  extreme  heat,  there  came  one  of  those  intensely  hot 


p 

140          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASTL. 

days  when  the  earth  is  like  one  great  kiln,  and  the  very 
atmosphere  like  molten  lead.  The  sea  lay  flat,  motionless, 
pulseless,  prostrated  beneath  the  fierceness  of  the  sun's  rays ; 
the  sedges  were  crisped  and  dry  and  husky,  as  if  a  fire  had 
passed  over  them. 

There  was  no  comfort  anywhere ;  towards  night  the  air, 
instead  of  growing  cooler,  seemed  to  be  stiller,  sultrier,  more 
stifling,  if  possible,  than  before,  and,  leaving  Walter  on  a 
sofa,  Adrian  Vannesse  and  I  walked  down  to  the  beach.  We 
did  not  gain  much,  for  the  sand  scorched  our  eyes  and  our  feet ; 
besides,  it  was  "  dead  low  water,"  and  4he  great  bare,  muddy 
flats  lay  reeking  and  steaming  in  the  sun,  in  all  their  unsight- 
liness ;  for,  whatever  may  be  true  of  the  great  ocean,  I  am 
certain  that  everything  cast  into  the  sea  near  shore  does  not 

"  Suffer  a  sea-change 
*      Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

However,  we  walked  on,  until  we  left  the  hamlet  behind 
us,  and  reached  a  dilapidated  fish-house,  which  served  to 
shelter  the  man  who  acted  as  Charon  in  all  our  sailing  and 
fishing  expeditions.  Once  or  twice  I  had  penetrated  into  the 
hidden  mysteries  of  the  place,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the 
man's  bed-ridden  mother  —  a  great,  gaunt  skeleton  of  a 
woman,  half  palsied,  who  sat  up  in  her  bunk,  sick  or  well,  and 
netted  seine. 

The  man  himself  was  a  specimen,  both  in  a  physical  and 
psychological  view,  not 

"Lean  and  lank  and  brown, 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea  sand," 

like  the  ancient  mariner,  but  sturdy,  and,  as  Vulcan  himself, 
with  a  complexion  like  the  red  earth  of  which  he  was  formed ; 
neither  had  he  the  long  "  white  beard  and  glittering  eye," 
which  wrought  such  a  spell  upon  the  luckless  wedding-guest, 
but  a  beard  short,  and  stiff,  and  grizzled,  like  a  mildewed 


AN  INCIDENT  ON   THE  SEA-SHOKE.  141 

stubble-field,  and  a  light  gray  eye,  overhung  by  massy,  shaggy 
eyebrows.  But,  like  to  old  Chaucer's  "  Shipman," 

"  Of  a  nice  conscience,  no  great  care  he  kept;" 

nor  of  his  temper  either,  judging  from  the  many  stories  we 
heard  of  his  fierce,  ungovernable  rage  ;  bursts  of  passion,  that 
proved  him  more  fit  for  the  mad-house  than  elsewhere ;  yet 
his  neighbors  had  not  failed  to  take  advantage  of  this  infirm- 
ity, and  had  involved  him  in  lawsuit  after  lawsuit,  and  given 
him  one  month's  residence  in  the  county  jail  after  another, 
until  he  had  been  reduced  from  the  ownership  and  mastership 
of  a  pretty  schooner,  to  one  or  two  pet  sail-boats,  and  had 
exchanged  a  comfortable  home  for  this  miserable  shelter,  in 
which,  with  his  old  mother  and  his  only  remaining  child,  a 
bright-eyed  boy  of  ten,  he  contrived  to  weather  out  summer 
and  winter. 

One  redeeming  trait  of  manhood  he  had  kept  through  all 
—  he  was  always  true  to  his  word,  and  on  all  our  expeditions 
he  was  punctual  to  a  minute.  For  the  rest,  to  quote  again 
from  Chaucer : 

"  In  his  own  craft  to  reckon  well  the  tides, 
The  sea's  deep  purrents  and  the  shoals  besides, 
The  sun's  height,  and  the  moon's,  and  pilotage, 
There  was  none  such  from  Hull  unto  Carthage." 

Now  he  sat  on  a  decayed  piece  of  timber  without  the  hut, 
with  his  tarpaulin  jammed  down  upon  his  head,  and  his  red 
flannel  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  above  his  elbows,  splicing  a 
parted  rope.  Adrian  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  him 
about  their  plans  for  the  next  morning,  and  we  passed  on  to 
where  the  lee  of  a  rocky  point  promised  some  hope  of  shelter 
from  the  sun.  Here  we  sat,  and  pertinaciously  called  up 
visions  of  icebergs  and  Polar  seas,  of  wintry  shipwrecks  and 
frozen  mariners,  not  forgetting 


142         LEATES  FBOM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

"  The  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea, 
And  the  skipper  who  took  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  companie." 

But  it  was  in  vain ;  we  could  not  even  raise  an  imaginary 
breeze.  The  pale,  coppery  sky  seemed  to  shut  down  closer 
and  closer  over  us,  and  we  could  only  sit  and  laugh  at  our 
own  folly.  At  length  there  came  one  or  two  slight  pufls  of 
air  from  the  westward,  and  Adrian,  viho  was  well  versed  in  the 
signs  of  the  weather,  suggested  that  we  should  go  home  before 
the  storm  overtook  us. 

I  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a  storm ;  but,  helping  me  up  the 
rocks  which  had  sheltered  us  on  the  west,  he  pointed  to  where, 
all  along  the  western  sky,  from  the  horizon  towards  the  ze- 
nith, stretched  fine  lines  of  pale  yellow  light,  saying : 

"  Look ;  there  is  the  proof  of  my  words ;  and,  see,"  he  con- 
tinued, climbing  to  the  highest  point,  which  gave  us  an  out- 
look beyond  the  range  of  hills  to  the  north  and  west, "  there  it 
comes,  in  good  earnest." 

And  all  along  the  west  stretched  a  cloud,  black  as  night, 
save  where  its  beautifully-curved  edge  was  bordered  with  a 
strip  of  clear  silvery  hue. 

"We  shall  hardly  have  time  to  reach  home,"  observed 
Adrian,  as  he  watched  its  rapid  strides  up  the  western  sky. 

Still  we  lingered,  in  awe  and  admiration,  until,  lighting  up 
its  edge  for  a  few  moments  with  a  richer  splendor,  the  sun  dis- 
appeared beneath  it,  and  its  black  shadow  fell  on  land  and 
sea.  Then  came  the  muttered  thunder,  followed  by  the  crink- 
ling lightning.  There  was  a  pause,  while  the  light  streak 
near  the  horizon  rapidly  widened,  and  the  ocean  moaned  and 
rocked  in  long,  undulating  swells ;  and  then  came  a  roar  as 
of  many  waters  —  a  rush  as  of  the  wings  of  mighty  winds  — 
and  the  storm  was  upon  us ;  not  of  mere  rain-drops,  but  a 
thick,  blinding,  bewildering  spray  and  mist,  driven  before  the 
fiercest  of  winds. 


AN   INCIDENT   ON    THE   SKA-SHORE.  143 

Adrian  Vannesse  drew  his  strong  arm  about  me,  and  started 
for  the  fisherman's  hut,  the  only  accessible  shelter ;  but  he 
proceeded  only  a  few  paces,  before  he  stopped  short,  exclaim- 
ing, in  a  tone  of  horror : 

"  Good  God !  what  madness  !  " 

And,  following  the  direction  of  his  glance,  I  saw,  through 
the  thick  mist  and  spray,  for  one  moment,  the  white  sail  of  a 
boat,  a  few  rods  distant  from  the  rocky  point  we  had  just 
left  —  for  one  moment ;  then  came  a  loud,  shrill,  fearful  cry  of 
agony  and  deathly  fear,  swelling  above  the  storm ;  and  the 
boat,  and  he  who  uttered  it,  went  down  beneath  the  leaping 
waves. 

"  Make  for  the  hut !  "  shouted  Adrian  Vannesse. 

And  the  next  moment  I  was  alone,  and  he,  followed  by 
another  wild,  bareheaded  figure,  that  came  rushing  along  the 
beach,  had  dashed  into  the  surf. 

I  did  not  heed  the  storm,  scarcely  moved  or  breathed,  until 
Vannesse  emerged  from  the  water,  followed  by  our  old  boat- 
man, bearing  in  his  arms  a  human  body ;  then  I  fled  to  the 
hut,  and  reached  it  in  time  to  see  them  enter,  and  lay  down 
upon  the  floor  the  body  of  the  boatman's  only  son.  The  man 
looked  at  no  one,  heeded  no  one,  nor  even  replied  to  his  old 
mother's  scream  of  terror ;  but,  lifting  the  lad's  head  to  his 
knee,  wrung  the  water  from  the  tangled,  sun-burned  locks, 
and  chafed  the  cold,  wet  hands. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  mother ! "  he  cried,  at  last.  "  There 's 
life  in  the  lad  yet !  Get  up,  you  old  fool,  and  gi'e  me  the 
blanket,  can't  ye?" 

"  0  !  Dave,  Dave,  man !  the  lad  never  '11  breathe  again  — 
he 's  clean  gone !  "  screamed  the  old  woman ;  but  he  cut  her 
short  with  a  volley  of  curses,  and,  with  a  sudden  jerk,  drew 
the  ragged  coverlet  from  beneath  her  old  bones,  and  wrapped 
it  round  the  child. 

Adrian  Vannesse  knelt  on  the  earthen  floor,  and  lent  all 
his  aid  to  assist  the  iuther  in  his  efforts  to  resuscitate  the  body 


144         LEAVES  PROM  THE  TREE  IQDRABYL. 

—  but  in  vain.  At  length,  pointing  to  a  dark  bruise  on  his 
temple,  he  said : 

"  My  poor  friend,  this  is  useless.  Your  boy  will  never 
speak  or  move  again.  He  is  dead  ! " 

"  Not  speak  again !  —  not  move,  —  my  Billy,  —  the  hand- 
iest, smartest  lad  on  the  whole  cove,  —  dead ! "  said  the  man, 
dreamingly.  "  You  lie !  'Yhe  shouted,  turning  suddenly  upon 
Vannesse  ;  "he  never  minded  a  ducking,  —  he  a'n't  dead !  " 
and  he  again  set  to  chafing  the  stiffened  limbs. 

Adrian  did  not  reply  otherwise  than  by  placing  the  miser- 
able father's  hand  over  the  pulseless  heart.  The  man  drew 
back  with  a  start  and  a  shudder  that  ran  through  his  giant 
frame ;  then,  sinking  down  on  the  floor,  he  sat  gazing  into  the 
child's  pale,  open  face  with  a  look  of  vacant,  dumb  misery. 

"Dead!  dead!  He  '11  never  hail  the  skiff  again, — never. 
O,  my  boy !  my  boy !  "  and  the  groans  of  the  strong  man  in 
his  agony  were  mingled  with  the  raging  of  the  storm. 

Suddenly  the  old  woman  raised  herself  up,  and  said,  in  a 
tone  that  was  a  strange  blending  of  childishness  and  authority, 

"  It 's  the  Hand  o'  God,  Davy  —  the  hand  o'  God !  " 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  take  you,  you  old  worthless  hulk,  or 
me,  who  am  good  for  nothing  but  to  die ;  and  not  the  laughin', 
happy  boy?"  said  the  miserable  man,  angrily.  "  Ah,  Billy, 
lad,  —  the  last  o'  ten,  —  all  gone  !  all  gone  !  — gone  where  ?  " 
he  muttered,  as  if  a  new  thought  were  struggling  in  upon  his 
grief.  Then  turning  io  Adrian  Vannesse,  he  seized  his  arm, 
and  said,  eagerly  : 

"  Ye  are  a  larned  man,  sir,  an'  I  believe  a  good  un !  I  Ve 
heard  ye  and  tother  un  readin'  an'  talkin'  in  outlandish  tongues, 
sech  as  the  likes  o'  me  don't  understand,  an'  ye  know  a  great 
many  things,  —  say,  where  is  my  boy  gone  ?  Shall  I  ever  see 
him  agin  ?  " 

And  he,  —  the  all-accomplished  man  of  the  world,  the  rare 
scholar,  the  deep  thinker,  who  prided  himself  on  the  strength 
of  his  reason,  and  boasted  that  man's  intellect  was  sufficient 


AN   INCIDENT   ON    THE   SEA-SHORE.  145 

for  his  wants,  —  stood  dumb  before  the  mighty  mystery  of 
Death !  Among  all  his  fine-wrought  arguments  and  subtleties 
of  the  intellect,  there  was  not  one  which  could  give  comfort  to 
that  wretched,  questioning  father,  or  lift  his  bruised  spirit 
above  the  lifeless  lump  of  clay  at  his  feet ! 

"  It  's  a'  in  the  Bible,  man,"  muttered  the  old  crone. 
"  Surely,  Dave,  I  gin  ye  good  schoolin'  in  -  the  days  long 
sin'." 

"  Ay,  and  bad  enough  sin',  mother  P'  murmured  the  man ; 
"  so  it  is  e'en  as  broad  as  't  is  long  ;"  and  again  he  bent  his 
deep,  earnest  gaze  upon  Vannesse.  But,  before  his  lips  could 
utter  again  the  startling, ."  Where  is  he  gone  ?  "  a  slight  figure, 
with  dripping  black  garments  clinging  to  her  delicate  limbs, 
and  long,  golden  curls  streaming  over  her  shoulders,  came 
softly  from  a  remote  corner  of  the  room,  and,  laying  her  small 
white  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  giant  boatman,  said,  earnestly, 
in  low,  silvery  tones,  that  seemed  somehow  to  carry  with  them 
conviction : 

"  He  has  gone  to  God,  sir  ;  —  that"  pointing  to  the  life- 
less body,  "  is  only  the  form,  the  shell,  in  which  your  little 
boy  lived  while  here.  Now,  he  has  gone  home  to  our 
Father  in  heaven,  where  there  is  neither  sin,  nor  sorrow, 
nor  pain." 

The  bereaved  father  loeked  straight  into  the  clear,  angel 
face  of  the  young  girl,  full  a  moment,  before  he  replied : 

"  If  he  is  our  Father,  Miss,  and  good  as  you  say,  why  did 
he  let  him  die  ?  I  would  n't  'a  let  him." 

"  That  you  maybe  the  more  willing  to  follow  him,  perhaps," 
said  the  girl.  "  Tell  me,"  she  went  on ;  "  you  have  lived  a 
long  fime  ;  has  life  been  so  very  pleasant? — would  you  bring 
him  back  to  live  just  the  life  you  have  lived  ?  " 

The  man  turned  his  thoughtful  glance  from  her  face  to  that 
of  the  dead,  a  moment,  before  he  replied. 

"  No ;  if  He  is  good  as  you  say,  he  is  better  off  there.  But 
13 


146         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

shall  I  ever  see  him  agin,  Miss  ?  Is  it  true,  what  them  par- 
sons say  ?  "  he  added,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  see  him,  if  you  obey  God,  for  you  '  shall 
go  to  him,  but  he  shall  return  no  more  to  you,' "  was  the  quiet 
answer ;  and  then,  in  that  low,  sweet  tone,  she  went  on  to 
speak  of  God — not  as  the  Unknown,  the  Infinite,  over  whose 
essence  and  attributes  philosophers  lose  themselves  in  a  waste 
of  words,  but  as  the  ^1-wise,  all-good  Father  —  and  of  the 
Son,  who  "  carrieth  the  lambs  in  his  bosom,"  to  whom  even 
the  most  poor  and  ignorant  may  come,  and  find  pardon  and 
peace. 

Adrian  Vannesse  never  forgot  that  lesson.  With  Bertha 
Davenport  leaning  on  his  other  arm,  we  walked  home  after 
the  tempest  had  spent  its  fury,  and  learned  how  she,  too,  had 
been  caught  in  the  storm,  and  forced  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
fisherman's  hut ;  but  he  said  little  or  nothing  until  we  reached 
the  porch  of  our  temporary  home.  Then,  taking  her  hand,  and 
baring  his  head,  as  if  in  reverence,  he  said : 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Davenport,  and  do  me  the  justice  to 
believe  that  I  ask  from  no  idle  motive.  But  this  religious 
faith  of  yours,  tell  me,  has  it  brought  you  rest  ?  Is  it  suffi- 
cient for  all  times  and  seasons  ?  " 

The  sweet,  child-like  face  was  raised  to  his  a  moment,  in 
surprise ;  then,  pointing  to  where  the  black  clouds  rolled  in 
jagged  masses  over  the  western  sky,  she  said  : 

"  There  come  days  and  hours,  in  all  lives,  —  certainly  in 
mine,  —  when  clouds  and  thick  darkness  are  about  us,  like 
those  yonder  ;  but  I  know  that  behind  them  shines  the  sure 
eun  of  God's  love ;  and  I  have  peace,  —  deep  and  abiding 
peace." 

And,  surely,  no  one  who  looked  upon  that  serene,  thought- 
ful face,  could  doubt  it. 

Adrian    Vannesse,   like   many  another  thoughtful   soul 
after  suffering  grievous  temptations,  is  now  a  preacher  of 


AN   INCIDENT  ON   THE   SEA-SHORE.  147 

God's  truth ;  and  when  doubt  or  discouragement  beset  him, 
as  they  sometimes  will,  he  has  only  to  look  down  into  the 
clear  eyes  of  her  whom  he  once  thought  born  only  as  the 
heritor  of  woman's  sorrows,  to  read  there  a  never-failing 
evangel  of  faith  and  hope,  as  he  whispers  the  sweet,  fond 
words,  "  My  wife." 


fc'ii 


DEATH    BY    THE    WAY-SIDE 

A    SKETCH. 


"  Never  before  had  the  forests  of  America  witnessed  such  a  sight  . 
Never  again  was  there  such  a  pilgrimage  from  the  sea-side  '  to  the 
delightful  banks  of  the  Connecticut ! '  "  —  BANCROFT. 

SUCH  is  the  language  of  the  eloquent  historian,  with  refer- 
ence to  the  journey  of  that  band  of  pilgrims,  who,  in  the 
pleasant  spring-time  of  1636,  turned  their  backs  upon  such 
vestiges  of  comfort  and  civilization  as  the  infant  settlements 
of  Massachusetts  Bay  afforded,  and,  headed  by  their  beloved 
pastor,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Hooker,  made  their  way  through 
perils  innumerable,  across  swamps  and  streams,  over  rough 
and  rocky  highlands,  and  through  tangled  woods  and  deep 
green  valleys,  with  no  guide  but  a  compass,  and  no  shelter 
but  the  heavens,  until,  like  the  Israelites  of  old,  they  crossed 
the  "  goodlie  river,"  and  upon  its  western  bank  raised  their 
altars,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  the  pleasant  city  of  Hart- 
ford. 

And  he  is  right.  More  than  two  hundred  years  have 
elapsed,  and  "  companies  by  fifties  and  by  hundreds  "  of  New 
England's  sons,  with  their  wives  and  their  little  ones,  have 
gone  forth  from  her  rugged  hills  and  sheltered  valleys,  to  seek 
a  richer  reward  for  their  labor  amid  the  fertile  prairies  of  the 
West,  or  by  the  golden-bedded  streams  of  California  ;  yet,  in 
character  and  influence,  in  that  true  courage  which  lifts  the 
soul  above  fear,  —  a  courage,  thank  God !  not  dependent  on 
thews  and  sinews,  but  growing  out  of  a  firm  adherence  to  God 


DEATH    BY    THE    \VAY-SIDi\  HV 

and  the  right,  and  which  inspires  the  heart  of  the  feeblest 
woman,  as  well  as  the  strongest  man,  —  in  all  that  goes  to 
make  up  true  moral  grandeur,  none  can  compare  with  this. 

It  is  not  without  significance  that  the  old  writers  speak  of 
this  company,  as  consisting  of  "about  one  hundred  souls." 
They  were  not  mere  bodies,  seeking  a  new  field  for  the  grati- 
fication of  animal  appetites  and  pleasures,  but  souls,  with  ends 
and  aims  that  took  hold  on  eternity,  and  who  faced  famine  and 
death,  not  for  worldly  gain,  but  that  they  might  obtain  liberty 
to  give  an  external  development  to  those  truths  which  had 
already  made  them  free  in  spirit.  In  proof  of  this,  we  need 
only  adduce  the  fact,  that,  in  all  succeeding  emigration  of 
their  descendants,  the  seeds  of  whatever  they  have  carried 
with  them  that  is  truest,  best,  most  ennobling,  —  that  which 
gives  vitality  to  their  institutions,  —  may  be  traced  back  to 
our  early  fathers ;  and  even  now  they  move  us  with  a  sway 
mightier  than  any  living  influence. 

No.  The  world,  even,  counts  few  pilgrimages  like  that ! 
That  there  will  yet  arise  prophets  and  disciples  dowered  with 
a  fuller  and  clearer  knowledge  of  the  truth,  we  earnestly  trust 
and  believe ;  yet  these  men  shall  not  die ;  or,  rather,  like  Abel, 
being  dead,  they  shall  yet  speak,  and  their  voices  vibrate  along 
the  chain  of  existence  until  time  is  no  more. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  a  rare  day  in  June,  that  the 
pilgrims  from  a  ridge  of  wooded  highlands  caught  their  first, 
faint  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  river.  Many  a  hill  and  valley, 
swamp  and  morass,  lay  between  ;  but  then  it  was  like-a  nar- 
row silver  thread  on  a  ground  of  green,  and,  after  a  moment's 
almost  breathless  silence,  there  arose  an  irrepressible  shout  — 
a  clear  old  English  shout  —  that  woke  the  sleeping  echoes  for 
miles  around. 

These  had  scarcely  died  away,  when,  in  tones  deep  and  clear ; 
as  a  bell,  Mr.  Hooker  gave  voice  to  the  sentiment  of  the  whole 
company,  in  the  eloquent  words  of  King  David  : 
13* 


150          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IGDRASYL. 

"  O,  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord,  for  he  is  good :  for  his 
mercy  endureth  forever. 

"  Let  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord  say  so,  whom  he  hath 
redeemed  from  the  hand  of  the  enemy. 

"  They  wandered  in  the  wilderness,  in  a  solitary  way ; 
they  found  no  city  to  dwell  in.  Hungry  and  thirsty,  their 
soul  fainted  in  them. 

"  Then  they  cried  unto  the  Lord  in  their  trouble,  and  he 
delivered  them  out  of  their  distresses. 

"  And  he  led  them  forth  by  the  right  way,  that  they  might 
go  to-  a  city  of  habitation. 

"  O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and 
for  his  wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men  !  " 

At  the  foot  of  that  wooded  range  of  hills  lay  a  beautiful 
valley,  and  there  they  halted  for  the  night.  It  was  a  striking 
scene,  that  halt  between  the  hills,  and  one  well  worthy  of 
the  artisf  s  pencil. 

The  wild,  luxuriant  beauty  of  the  landscape,  over  which 
neither  scythe  nor  sickle,  plough  nor  axe,  had  as  yet  passed ; 
the  flush  of  life  that  trembled  along  the  hills,  and  throbbed 
and  thrilled  in  everything  around  them ;  the  hum  of  the 
myriad  insect  tribes,  the  strange  birds  sitting  still  on  the 
boughs,  and  pouring  out  their  evening  songs  of  rare  and  won- 
drous melody ;  the  "occasional  cries  of  wild  beasts  that  their 
coming  had  aroused  from  their  lairs,  mingled  with  the  un- 
wonted lowing  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  head  of  cattle  which 
the  pilgrims  had  driven  before  them,  and  upon  whose  milk 
they  had  chiefly  subsisted  during  the  journey,  now  greedily 
satisfying  their  hunger  upon  the  fresh  green  grass  of  the 
valley,  while  the  milkers  went  among  them,  filling  their  pails, 
preparatory  to  the  evening  meal.  Here,  a  party  of  men,  some 
of  whom  but  a  short  time  before  had  been  the  pride  of  Eng- 
land's oldest  university,  stood,  axe  in  hand,  cutting  down 
branches  of  the  fragrant  birch,  or  thick-leaved  maple,  while 
another  arranged  them  into  huts  and  couches  for  the  shelter 


DEATH   BY   THE   WAV-SIDE.  151 

and  comfort  of  the  women  and  children.  There,  a  group 
were  busy  unloading  the  few  pack-horses  that  carried  their 
extra  stores,  while,  like  a  second  Prometheus,  the  accom- 
plished owner  of  Copford  Hall,  and  ex-governor  of  Massa- 
chusetts, John  Haynes,  might  be  seen  with  tinder-box,  steel 
and  flint,  in  hand,  kindling  the  fires  so  necessary  to  protect 
them  from  wild  beasts,  as  well  as  cook  their  hasty  pudding, 
and  parch  their  quota  of  Indian  corn.  Two  crotched  sticks, 
supporting  a  good,  stout  pole,  from  which  swung  an  iron  pot, 
answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  fireplace ;  and  around  these 
clustered  the  busy-handed  matrons,  not  a  few  of  them  the 
cherished  daughters  of  wealth  and  ease,  watching  the  seeth- 
ing, bubbling  contents  of  the  vessels,  or  tending  their  infants 
in  the  shade ;  while,,  rosy-cheeked  maidens  brought  water  in 
wooden  dippers,  or  gourd  shells,  from  a  crystal  spring,  that 
bubbled  up  beneath  the  roots  of  a  wide-spreading  birch,  near 
which  stood  the  revered  pastor  himself,  —  that  "  light  of  the 
western  churches,"  whose  eloquence  had  drawn  people  from 
all  parts  of  the  County  of  Essex  to  hear  him,  ere  he  was 
silenced  for  non-conformity,  —  folding  the  broad  leaves  of  the 
hickory  into  drinking-cups  for  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
lambs  of  his  flock,  that  had  gathered  round  him  to  slake 
their  thirst ;  while  in  the  background  rose  the  dark-wooded 
hills,  and  above  them  arched  the  deep,  unclouded  sky  of 
June. 

Not  far  from  the  spring,  under  the  shade  of  a  magnificent 
oak,  were  two  huts,  built  of  branches  like  the  rest,  but  con 
structed  with  far  more  care,  for  it  seemed  as  if  every  one  of 
the  company  had  been  anxious  to  do  something  towards  per- 
fecting their  arrangement.  One  was  occupied  by  Madame 
Hooker  and  her  family,  and  near  the  opening  of  the  other 
reclined  a  fragile-looking  girl,  with  hair  like  a  floating  cloud 
at  sunset,  and  eyes  deep,  serene  and  (clear,  as  the  cloudless 
sky  above  her.  This  was  Maude,  the  young  wife  of  Geoffrey 


152         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Winstanley,  whose  youth,  gentleness,  and  failing  health,  made 
her  an  object  of  peculiar  interest  to  every  heart. 

"  She  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the  effects  of  her  sea- 
voyage,  when  they  started  on  their  pilgrimage,  and  it  had 
been  too  much  for  her,  poor  thing,"  the  matrons  said,  "  but 
the  quiet  and  comfort  of  the  settlement  would  soon  set  her 
up  again ; "  and  her  husband  listened  to  them  eagerly,  and 
repeated  their  words  to  himself,  as  if  by  so  doing  he  could 
silence  the  terrible  misgivings  that  haunted  him. 

Now,  the  little  children  brought  bunches  of  luscious  straw- 
berries, to  tempt  the  appetite  of  their  favorite,  and  win  from 
her  one  of  those  sweet  smiles,  which  they  had  learned  to 
prize  higher  than  words ;  and  their  elders,  as  they  passed, 
paused  to  congratulate  her  on  their  nearness  to  their  jour- 
ney's end  —  alas,  they  little  knew  how  true  it  was  in  her 
case  !  —  and  to  speak  words  of  hope  and  comfort ;  but  some 
there  were  who,  as  they  gazed  upon  her  face,  and  noted  that 
clear,  transparent  look,  that  gave  it  such  a  peculiar  beauty, 
turned  away  with  a  silent  prayer  for  her  and  her  husband ; 
for  they  knew  that,  like  all  the  highest  beauty  of  earth,  it  was 
but  a  reflex  from  that  unseen  land  towards  which  she  was 
hastening. 

"  Ripening  for  eternity  ! "  said  Mr.  Hooker,  when,  after 
evening  prayers,  he  turned  from  the  side  of  the  young  inva- 
lid, with  a  fervent  blessing,  and  sought  the  presence  of  his 
wife.  t 

"  Our  gentle  Maude  is  almost  done  with  the  things  of 
earth !  " 

"  And  Geoffrey,  poor  Geoffrey !  "  murmured  his  wife. 
" How  will  he  ever  bear  it?  Even  but  now  he  hath  spoken 
to  me  of  renewed  hope." 

Mr.  Hooker  did  not  answer ;  but,  as  he  stood  watching  the 
noble,  manly  figure  of  Geoffrey  Winstanley,  as  he  bent  over 
his  young  wife,  —  now  arranging  the  bear-skins  upon  which 
ehe  reclined,  with  a  tenderness  and  anxiety  that  seemed  nevei 


DEATH   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  158 

• 

satisfied,  now  pulling  back  the  rich  waves  of  hair  that  fell 
too  heavily  over  her  cheek,  —  and  thought  of  the  dread  trial 
that  awaited  him,  all  the  human  stirred  within  him,  and 
he,  too,  murmured,  "  Poor  Geoffrey  ! " 

There  had  been  a  time  when  he  and  many  others  had 
heard,  with  surprise  and  regret,  that  Geoffrey  Winstanley, 
with  his  strong  will,  clear  intellect,  and  sincerely  religious 
heart,  had  become  the  thrall  of  a  young  beauty  of  sixteen, 
the  favorite  niece  of  the  haughty  rector  of  Swindon,  and 
that  he  lingered  in  England  in  the  hope  of  making  her  his 
wife.  They  felt  ready  to  say  to  him,  in  the  words  of  Ma- 
noah  to  Samson,  "  Is  there  no  woman  among  the  daughters 
of  thy  brethren,  nor  among  all  thy  people,  that  thou  goest  to 
take  a  wife  of  the  uncircumcised  Philistines  ?  " 

But  when  she  stood  among  them  as  his  wife,  and  they 
heard  how,  for  the  sake  of  the  proscribed  Puritan,  she  had 
braved  the  anger  and  persecution  of  her  relatives, — when  they 
saw  the  tenderness,  meekness,  and  reverence,  with  which  she 
looked  up  to  all  her  husband's  friends,  —  the  heart  of  the  most 
rigid  warmed  towards  her ;  and  with  Mr.  Hooker's  family 
she  soon  became  "  our  gentle  Maude."  As  the  good  man 
thought  of  all  this,  and  of  her  gentle  yet  earnest  faith,  and 
the  many  times  within  the  past  few  weeks  when  he  had  vis- 
ited her  in  his  capacity  of  teacher,  and  came  away  a  learner, 
his  heart  smote  him  for  his  injustice. 

He  was,  indeed,  right.  Under  the  combined  teaching  of 
Love  and  Death,  Maude  Winstanley  was  ripening  for  eter- 
nity. Once  she  had  resolutely  shut  her  heart  against  even 
the  thought  of  the  latter,  it  seemed  so  impossible  that  death 
could  reach  her,  shielded  by  Geoffrey's  love  and  sheltered  in 
his  arms.  But  as  the. weeks  went  on,  deepening  the  symp- 
toms of  that  fatal  disease  that  steals  upon  its  victims  silently . 
as  autumn  steals  upon  the  hills, ^ind  robes  them  with  a  beauty 
which  ia  not  of  this  world,  her  heart  awoke  to  a  deeper  in- 
eight  of  spiritual  truth ;  the  high  doctrines  so  often  discussed 


154         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

between  her  husband  and  her  pastor  grew  clearer  to  her 
understanding,  and  bore  fruit  for  eternity. 

Still,  the  human  was  strong  within  her ;  and  there  came 
momenta  —  especially  when  she  felt  the  deep  eyes  of  her  hus- 
band looking  down  upon  her  with  such  an  expression  of  unut- 
terable love  and  sorrow,  and  his  strong  frame  shake  with 
agony  if  she  did  but  breathe  of  what  awaited  them  —  when 
her  lips  trembled  and  her  heart  shrunk  shudderingly  from  the 
thought  of  the  grave  and  the  winding-sheet — when  earth 
with  him  seemed  better  than  heaven  without  him. 

Do  not  blame  her  too  severely,  thou  of  stronger  faith,  but 
remember,  she  was  but  a  gentle,  loving  girl,  and  wisdom  and 
faith  grow  but  slowly  in  this  sphere  of  ours.  If  you  have 
met  a  trial  like  this  with  more  unwavering  faith,  thank  God 
for  it ;  or,  if  as  yet  the  bitter  cup  has  not  been  presented  to 
your  lips,  still  thank  God,  —  for  it  is  of  his  mercy  alone,  — 
but  blame  her  not. 

God  did  not,  but  gave  to  her  heart  that  assurance,  without 
which  immortality  itself  would  be  but  a  cheat  —  the  blessed 
assurance  that  affection  dies  not  with  the  breath ;  that  in  a 
little  while,  a  few  brief  days  at  most,  that  love,  freed  from 
the  stains  and  impurities  of  earth,  should  again  beam  on  her 
from  those  beloved  eyes,  and  those  arms  once  more  fold  her 
in  their  pure,  holy  embrace. 

And  Geoffrey  Winstanley,  while  he  gazed  into  her  spir- 
itual eyes,  and  listened  to  her  low,  earnest  tones,  as  she 
poured  forth  for  his  comfort  those  blessed  intuitions,  felt  the 
gnawing  pain  at  his  heart  grow  still,  but  only  to  return  with 
tenfold  power  when  they  ceased,  and  he  found  himself  alone. 

That  was  no  boyish  fancy  that  had  led  him  to  linger  be- 
hind his  friends  in  England,  and  meet  their  looks  of  grave 
reproof,  for  the  sUke  of  Maude  Edgerton.  He  had  left  the 
first  flush  of  youth  some  years  behind,  when  she  stole  in 
upon  the  unsunned  side  of  his  heart,  and  gave  to  life  a  new, 
and,  to  him,  undreamed  of  beauty  and  significance. 


DEATH   BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  155 

He  had  been  an  orphan  from  childhood,  and  the  influences 
under  which  he  had  grown  to  manhood  had  not  failed,  while 
they  strengthened  and  developed  to  the  utmost  his  mental 
and  moral  energies,  to  deepen  the  natural  reserve  of  his  char- 
acter, until  even  those  who  knew  him  best  had  little  concep- 
tion of  the  earnest  enthusiasm,  the  boundless  capacity  for 
affection,  that  lay  concealed  beneath  his  calm,  grave,  almost 
stern,  exterior.  Earnest,  truthful,  noble,  and  sincerely  reli- 
gious, he  yet  lacked  that  feminine  influence  so  necessary  to 
man's  highest  development :  to  temper  justice  with  mercy, 
energy  with  softness,  inflexibility  with  grace,  and  render  his 
whole  character  symmetrical  and  in  harmony  with  the  Divine 
Ideal. 

This  had  been  Maude's  mission ;  and  could  he  part  with 
her  now,  when  life  first  seemed  blossoming  to  completeness  — 
when  each  hour  brought  some  new?  delicious  joy,  of  which 
his  solitary  youth  had  been  defrauded  ?  Could  he  lay  that 
head  down  in  the  grave,  whose  every  golden  tress  was  dearer 
to  him  than  life,  and,  looking  calmly  up,  say,  "  Thy  will  be 
done?" 

Not  without  a  struggle,  the  bitterness  of  which  few  even 
dreamed,  for  his  was  not  a  nature  that  manifested  its  emo- 
tions in  those  wild  paroxysms  which  pass  with  most  people 
for  evidences  of  profound  feeling ;  it  was  rather  like  the 
ocean,  when  the  fury  of  the  tempest  has  beaten  the  waves  to 
an  apparent  calm,  and  none  can  judge  of  the  wild  commotion 
below,  save  those  who  have  felt  its  power.  It  is  strange  how 
we  misjudge  the  hearts  of  men  in  this  world,  and  call  that 
coldness  and  indifference  which  is  simply  the  tranquillity 
resulting  from  intense  power  ! 

"  It  is  written,  '  Thou  shalt  not  make  unto  thyself  idols,' " 
Mr.  Hooker  had  said,  half  seriously  and  half  playfully,  one 
day,  to  Geoffrey,  as  he  marked  the  peculiar  expression  with 
which  he  watched  the  movements  of  his  young  wife  ;  and  he 
had  been  startled  at  the  intense  feeling  that  trembled  in  his 


156         LEAVES  FKOM  TUB  TREE  1GDKASYL. 

voice,  as,  pointing  to  where  she  sat,  soothing  the  feverish 
fretfulness  of  the  minister's  youngest  child,  he  replied,  "  It 
hath  also  been  said,  beware  lest  ye  '  entertain  angels  una- 
wares.' " 

The  sight  of  the  beautiful  river,  which  had  spread  such 
joy  through  the  band,  had  not  failed  to  stir  the  deep  enthu- 
siasm of  Geoffrey  Winstanley's  nature;  and,  as  that  clear 
June  day  deepened  into  twilight,  he  sat  by  the  side  of  Maude 
in  that  sylvan  tent,'  and  spoke,  with  the  heart  of  a  poet  and 
the  eye  of  a  prophet,  of  their  future  home,  and  the  mighty 
destiny  that  should  yet  wait  on  their  humble  efforts. 

Maude  listened  long  and  in  silence ;  then,  summoning  all 
her  God-given  strength,  she  spoke  to  him  of  the  home  that 
awaited  her,  not  with  him,  on  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Con- 
necticut, but  by  that  river  of  life  whose  stream  makes  glad 
the  city  of  God. 

She  did  not  need  to  look  up  in  his  face ;  for  the  trembling 
of  the  arm  that  encircled  her,  and  the  large,  burning  tear- 
drop that  fell  on  her  forehead,  spoke  plainly  of  the  agony 
her  words  had  awoke  within  him.  They  seemed  to  have 
changed  natures  —  that  high-hearted,  calm,  grave  man,  and 
the  yielding,  fragile  maiden ;  but,  as  she  kept  on,  there  was 
something  so  serene  in  her  faith,  so  holy  in  the  calm  resigna- 
tion with  which  she  spoke  of  death,  BO  exalting  in  her  views 
of  the  life  beyond,  that  he  was  lifted  above  himself;  and, 
leaning  his  head  on  those  golden  locks,  he  poured  out  all  his 
selfish  struggles,  and  told  how  for  weeks  past  he  had  been 
ready  to  struggle  with  God  to  retain  her  still  on  earth. 

"  Earth  !  what  is  earth,  my  husband  ?  "  she  replied ;  "  but 
a  few  short  years  of  troubled  joy  at  best ;  and  what  is  this, 
compared  with  that  rest  which  remaineth  for  the  children  of 
God  ?  That  rest  will  soon  be  mine ;  and  there  I  shall  await 
you.  You  will  not  fail  to  meet  me  there,  beloved." 

"  God  aiding  me,  I  will  not  In  this  hope,  and  with  this 
aim,  I  shall  live  and  die,"  he  replied,  fervently. 


DEATH  BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  157 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  between  them,  while 
the  grateful  evening  breeze  stirred  the  leafy  covering  of  their 
hut,  and  let  in  the  soft  June  moonlight,  that  fell  like  a  halo 
of  glory  over  the  golden  locks  of  the  invalid.  A  smile  flut- 
tered round  her  mouth ;  then  a  strange  tremor  for  a  brief 
second  shook  her  whole  frame,  and  struck  an  icy  chill  to  the 
husband's  heart ;  for,  with  that  passing  moonbeam,  the  spirit 
of  Maude  Winstanley  swept  upward  from  the  earth. 

O,  death !  death !  death !  thou  masked  angel,  whom  our 
tear-dimmed  eyes  cannot  unveil ;  thou  fearful  void,  which 
reason  cannot  fathom ;  thou  icy  silence,  which  love  cannot 
break ;  thou  dread  pause,  which  no  earthly  power  can  fill  — 
blessed,  thrice  blessed  is  he  who  can  hear  through  the  dark- 
ness and  desolation,  the  sorrow  and  the  anguish  that  wait 
upon  thy  footsteps,  the  voice  of  Him,  who,  by  that  fresh 
grave  in  Bethany,  of  erst  sanctified  human  grief,  whispering, 
"  Lo !  it  is  I  —  be  not  afraid !  " 

Not  there  —  0,  not  there,  with  that  beloved  form  stiffen- 
ing in  his  arms,  and  that  heavy,  benumbing  sense  of  sor- 
row weighing  down  upon  his  heart  —  not  when,  with  kiss 
after  kiss  upon  that  cold  brow,  he  resigned  her  to  the  care 
of  the  weeping  women  who  had  gathered  round,  and  rushed 
out  into  the  night  —  not  when  the  hand  of  Mr.  Hooker 
grasped  his  in  true  and  silent  sympathy,  could  Geoffrey  Win- 
stanley hear  that  voice !  But  when,  in  the  deep  watches  of 
the  night,  he  knelt  alone  by  the  side  of  his  dead,  then  it  fell 
upon  his  heart  like  an  echo  of  her  voice,  only  far  sweeter 
and  more  heavenly,  and  that  icy  silence  grew  tremulous,  as 
with  the  slow  beat  of  an  angel's  wings.  *  =*  * 

They  buried  her  "  by  the  way,"  as  Jacob  buried  Rachel ; 
but  they  "  set  up  no  pillar  upon  her  grave."  Her  initials,  cut 
in  the  smooth  bark  of  a  young  birch  that  overhung  her 
grave,  were  the  only  memorial  that  marked  the  spot  where 
slept  all  that  was  mortal  of  Maude  Winstanley. 
14 


LITTLE  BESSIE. 


PART     I  . 

IT  was  the  last  morning  of  the  old  year.  The  cold  was  in- 
tense ;  the  dense  leaden-hued  clouds  that  covered  the  heavens 
were  burdened  with  snow,  and  the  earth  beneath  was  frozen 
almost  as  hard  as  a  miser's  heart.  The  chilling  north-east 
wind,  as  it  whistled  through  old  passages  and  round  sharp 
corners,  seemed  laden  with  the  last  breath  of  frozen  mariners, 
who  sit  death-bound  and  ice-bound  on  board  their  motionless 
ships  in  the  far  northern  seas,  waiting  the  coming  of  our 
Lord. 

Ugh !  it  was  freezing  cold,  and  old  Mrs.  Lyman's  hands 
shook  like  brown  withered  leaves  in  autumn,  as  she  tied  the 
hood  and  folded  the  blanket  around  the  shoulders  of  her 
grand-daughter,  Bessie,  preparatory  to  sending  her  forth  to 
gather  material  to  replenish  their  wasting  fire.  But  little 
Bessie's  blood  was  warm  and  quick;  besides,  her  thoughts 
were  so  divided  between  the  new  mittens  (not  knit  of  nice  red 
yarn,  reader,  like  the  pair  you  remember,  but  made  out  of 
bits  of  red  flannel),  which  grandmother  had-  finished  for  her 
the  night  before,  and  the  nice,  white  chips  that  Esquire 
Brown's  men  had  left  in  the  Hill-side  woods,  and  given  her 
permission  to  gather,  that  she  did  not  mind  the  cold  nor  notice 
the  unusual  tremor  in  her  grandmother's  hands. 

But  when  the  old  lady  placed  a  slice  of  bread  in  her  basket, 
saying  she  would  need  it  to  keep  out  the  cold,  something  in 
her  voice  attracted  the  child's  attention.  She  gazed  anxiously 


LITTLE  BESSIE.  159 

in  the  pale,  sorrowful  face  that  bent  over  her,  then  taking  the 
bread  from  the  basket,  eyed  it  closely. 

"  Grandmother,"  she  said,  "  this  is  the  slice  I  brought  out 
for  your  breakfast.  You  have  eaten  nothing  to-day.  Are 
you  ill,  grandmother  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child." 

"  Then,  why  did  you  not  eat  it?  Surely,"  she  continued,  as 
if  struck  by  some  sudden  thought,  "  we  have  food  enough  to 
last  until  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  carry  in  the  work  to  Mr. 

G ,  and  get  the  pay.  There  is  the  piece  of  bread  and  the 

bit  of  fish  —  and  "  — 

"  Ay,  little  Bessie,  you  are  no  fairy,  to  turn  stones  into 
bread,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Your  list  is 
soon  told.  Besides,  you  forget  that  there  is  a  storm  coming 
up,  and  you  may  not  be  able  to  go  to  town  for  some  days.  In 
that  case,  we  must  make  what  we  have  last  as  well  as  we 
can." 

The  little  girl  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  vacantly  out  the 
window,  while  her  great  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Suddenly 
her  whole  face  lighted  up ;  she  dashed  away  the  tears,  and, 
pointing  to  a  pair  of  little  brown  snow-birds  hopping  about  on 
the  withered  branches  of  catnip  that  grew  beneath  the  window, 
in  search  of  seeds,  said  : 

"  See,  grandmother,  God  feeds  them !  He  will  not  let  us 
starve." 

"  Right,  child.  May  He  forgive  my  want  of  faith,"  replied 
the  grandmother,  fervently.  "  Now  go,  Bessie,  and  I  will 
meet  you  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  help  you  home  with  your 
basket." 

Grandmother  Lyman  and  little  Bessie  had  not  always  been 
so  poor ;  but,  as  the  old  lady  expressed  it,  things  had  been 
going  wrong  with  them  ever  since  poor  John,  Bessie's  father, 
was  crushed  by  the  falling  of  a  portion  of  the  building  on 
which  he  was  at  work.  After  some  months  of  suffering,  God 
took  him  home ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  his  heart-broken 


160          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDBASYL. 

young  wife  followed  him,  leaving  little  on  earth,  save  the 
orphan  Bessie.  True,  Mrs.  Lyman  had  another  son,  many 
years  older  than  Bessie's  father,  who  had  left  her,  while  yet  a 
boy,  to  gratify  his  passion  for  the  sea.  Though  she  had  not 
heard  from  him  for  many  years,  she  was  not  certain  of  his 
death ;  therefore,  whenever  the  great  storms  arose,  and  there 
came  frightful  tales  of  shipwreck  and  death,  her  mother-heart 
buried  him  again. 

After  John  and  his  wife  were  laid  in  the  grave,  Poverty 
began  to  look  in  upon  her,  in  the  shape  of  doctor's,  apotheca- 
ry's, and  grocer's  bills ;  but  the  courageous  old  soul  faced  him 
bravely,  until  fever  and  rheumatism  lent  their  aid  to  the  foe, 
when  she  was  obliged  to  yield. 

When  she  recovered,  in  some  degree,  the  use  of  her  limbs, 
she  found  that,  in  order  to  satisfy  her  creditors,  she  must 
give  up  the  humble  but  comfortable  home  whose  very  walls 
and  floors  were  written  all  over  to  her  with  household  records, 
and  find  a  shelter  for  herself  and  Bessie  elsewhere. 

Many  of  the  neighbors  were  disposed  to  assist  her,  and 
some  of  the  most  excitable  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the 
doctor  and  grocer  were  well  able  to  give  in  the  old  widow's 
bills ;  but  she  reminded  them  that  the  doctor  had  two  invalid 
sisters  to  assist,  and  that  among  the  grocer's  large  family  there 
was  one  poor  little  crippled  boy,  for  whom  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  make  some  extra  provision.  Ah !  Grandmother 
Lyman  was  a  thoughtful  old  soul  —  thoughtful  of  every  one 
before  herself!  Some  there  were  who  talked  of  the  poor- 
house,  and  said  she  would  be  compelled  to  make  up  her  mind 
to  it  at  last ;  but  these  were  very  few,  for  most  of  the  people 
sympathized  with  that  feeling  of  self-respect  (some  call  it 
pride),  which  leads  our  New  England  population  to  submit 
to  many  privations  ere  they  accept  the  bread  of  public 
charity. 

A  kind  farmer  offered  her  the  old  house  in  which  we  found 
them,  rent  free.  True,  it  stood  in  a  solitary  place,  quite 


LITTLE   BESSIE.  161 

away  from  neighbors ;  but,  then,  it  was  in  close  proximity  to 
the  "  Seahill  woods,"  where  they  had  permission  to  gather  as 
much  dry  wood  as  they  pleased.  Besides,  as  the  old  lady 
was  wont  to  observe,  "  Our  trials  and  our  blessings  walk  hand 
in  hand,"  and  as  her  infirmities  increased,  so  did  little  Bessie's 
strength.  She  was  soon  able  to  go  to  the  village  after  their 
slight  stores,  or  such  coarse  sewing  and  knitting  as  her  grand- 
mother's rheumatic  hands  were  able  to^  manage.  Lately,  a 
kind  lady  had  procured  employment  for  them  at  one  of  the 

cheap  clothing  stores  that  abound  in  the  city  of  H . 

Though  the  remuneration  was  the  merest  pittance,  yet  the  old 
lady's  thankful  spirit  magnified  it  to  quite  a  fortune ;  more- 
over, it  afforded  her  the  means  of  teaching  little  Bessie  to 
sew,  and  she  was  already  able  to  stitch  and  cross-stitch  the 
long  seams  in  the  coarse  shirts  and  drawers  of  which  their  work 
consisted,  when  we  introduced  her  to  our  readers. 

The  only  drawback  to  this  god-send  was  the  long  walks  it 

obliged  the  child  to  take.  H was  five  good  miles  distant 

from  their  home,  and  their  employer  a  man  of  method,  who  in- 
sisted on  having  the  work  brought  in  punctually  at  the  given 
time,  else  it  would  be  given  to  some  other  half-starved  seeker  in 
this  great  granary  of  God.  Bessie  did  not  mind  the  distance 
in  the  warm  weather,  for  then  the  birds  sung  marches  for  her 
in  the  green  meadows  —  now  slower ;  now  faster  —  and  the 
flowers  sprang  up  through  the  turf  by  the  way-side,  and  made 
a  rich  carpet  for  her  little  feet  even  to  the  entrance  of  the 
city.  But  she  could  never  quite  overcome  the  feeling  of  lone- 
liness and  dread  that  came  over  her  when  she  stood  within 

that  long,  gloomy  store  in  F street,  and  heard  the  owner's 

cold,  abrupt,  "  Well,  child,  your  grandmother  is  punctual,  I 
see  ;"  and  in  the  cold  winter  it  required  all  the  sunshine  that 
the  little  girl  had  garnered  into  her  heart  during  the  long 
summer,  to  brighten  the  way. 

After  this  long  digression,  we  will  only  add,  that  the  last 
lot  of  work  was  done,  and  must  be  sent  in  on  the  morrow,  or 
14* 


162         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TBEE  IQDRASYL. 

the  next  day  at  the  farthest,  and  leave  Mrs.  Lyman  to  pre- 
pare it  for  the  inspection  of  Mr.  Gr ,  while  we  follow  little 

Bessie  to  the  woods. 

Bravely  she  breasted  the  keen  north-east  wind,  occasionally 
turning  to  get  breath  and  draw  her  scanty  blanket  more  close- 
ly about  her,  while  the  withered  herbage,  coated  with  white 
frost,  crumpled  beneath  her  little  feet,  as  if  a  giant  pressed  it. 

When  she  reached  the  brook  where  the.  path  turned  into 
the  woods,  she  did  not  pause  as  usual  to  watch  the  nodding 
bulrushes,  now  jewelled  and  gemmed  by  the  frost-like  fairy 
wands,  nor  stop  to  catch  a  nearer  glimpse  of  the  wondrous 
"  architecture  of  the  brooklet's  winter  palace ;"  for  her  young 
heart  was  very,  very  sad.  The  more  she  thought  of  their 
scanty  stores,  and  her  grandmother's  pale,  wan  face,  the  more 
deeply  she  reproached  herself  for  certain  deeds  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty,  and  which  now,  seen  through  the  chilling 
atmosphere  of  want,  seemed  like  wanton  extravagance.  Dur- 
ing the  autumn,  she  had  spent  whole  days  in  the  woods  in 
search  of  nuts.  On  these  occasions  she  had  often  shared  her 
little  parcel  of  dinner  with  a  large,  half-famished  dog  that  be- 
longed to  a  poor  drunken  pedler  that  lived  at  the  distance  of 
a  mile  or  more  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hill.  It  was 
thought  that  the  man  had  stolen  the  animal  in  some  of  his 
excursions,  for,  instead  of  taking  kindly  to  his  master,  he 
wandered  about  the  woods  in  search  of  game,  where  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  little  Bessie.  At  first,  the  child  was 
somewhat  afraid  of  her  shaggy  acquaintance,  but  he  scon 
found  means  to  convince  her  of  his  honesty,  and  a  warm 
friendship  grew  up  between  them.  For  hours,  old  Jack  would 
lie  by  her  basket  while  she  wandered  from  tree  to  tree,  occa- 
sionally lifting  his  head  from  between  his  paws,  and  looking 
round  to  assure  himself  of  her  safety,  and  woe  to  the  mis- 
chievous boy  that  dared  to  approach  her  basket !  Bessie,  whose 
heart  overflowed  with  love  for  everything,  was  delighted  with 
her  new  friend,  and  had  no  other  means  of  manifesting  he; 


LITTLE  BESSIE.  16» 

sense  of  his  preference  than  by  sharing  with  him  her  dinner. 
True,  the  meal  was  rather  ecant  for  two,  and  we  know  some 
people,  ay,  and  dogs,  too,  who  would  have  taken  exception 
at  the  quality  as  well  as  the  quantity ;  but  Bessie  and  Jack 
could  not  afford  to  be  very  fastidious. 

Though  the  child  had  often  spoken  of  her  friend  Jack  to 
her  grandmother,  she  had  not  ventured  to  acknowledge  him 
as  the  sharer  of  her  dinner,  from  a  kind  of  misgiving  that 
the  old  lady  would  not  think  it  quite  right.  It  was  this 
question  that  now  troubled  the  little  girl's  mind.  Benevo- 
lence said  that  she  had  done  right  —  her  self-denial  had  saved 
the  life  of  the  poor  animal ;  but  selfishness  pointed  to  the 
meagre  bit  of  bread  in  the  cupboard,  and  whispered  that  the 
food  should  have  been  laid  aside  "against  the  day  of  want. 
So  busy  was  the  little  girl  with  this  point  of  ethics,  that  she 
did  not  hear  the  pattering  of  old  Jack's  feet,  nor  see  him, 
until  he  rubbed  his  shaggy  coat  against  her  side,  and  poked 
his  cold  nose  under  her  hood,  as  she  bent  over  her  basket. 

They  had  not  met  for  several  days,  and  the  poor  dog's  joy 
was  unbounded.  And  well  he  might  be  glad  to  see  Bessie's 
friendly  face,  for  the  marks  of  the  rope  on  his  chafed  and 
bleeding  leg,  and  of  the  whip  on  his  sides,  proved  that  the 
faces  he  had  met  of  late  had  been  anything  but  friendly. 
Poor  Bessie !  Her  resolutions  of  prudence  were  not  proof 
against  the  mute  eloquence  of  Jack's  looks,  and  the  next 
moment  the  slice  of  bread  was  drawn  forth  from  the  wrapper, 
and  by  far  the  largest  part  laid  before  her  old  friend,  with 
the  half-uttered  thought,  "  Poor  old  fellow,  perhaps  I  shall 
not  have  anything  to  give  you  again  in  a  great  while !  " 


PART    II. 

The  New  Year  of  184-  made  his  entree  in  the  midst  of 
festivities,  and  greeted  his  subjects  with  a  clear,  bright  face. 
True,  there  were  signs  of  a  frown  hovering  over  his  brow, 


164  I.KAVKS    KliOM    THK   THEE   IQDRASYL. 

that,  to  those  accustomed  to  study  such  things,  hinted  of 
wild  storms ;  and  some  of  his  poorer  subjects  shuddered,  and 
declared  that  his  breath  was  even  colder  than  the  dying 
breath  of  his  predecessor ;  but  their  murmurs  were  drowned 
amid  the  joyous  shouts  with  which  their  more  fortunate 
brethren  greeted  his  accession.  The  present  custom  —  which 
requires  ladies  to-  keep  the  house  on  New- Year's  day,  in 
order  to  receive  the  calls  of  their  male  acquaintance  —  was 

not  very  prevalent  in  H at  the  time  of  which  we  speak ; 

therefore  the  streets  had  not  quite  so  much  of  a  Turkish 
look  as  at  the  present  day.  The  long  vista  of  Main-street 
presented  a  joyous  sight  to  old  and  young,  with  its  groups  of 
restless,  happy  beings  thronging  in  every  direction.  Here 
were  troops  of  impatient  little  urchins,  with  cheeks  redder 
than  the  scarlet  linings  of  their  cloaks,  returning  from  the 
toy-shops  with  their  quota  of  gilded  and  sugared  trifles ;  then 
a  half-dozen  tall,  slender  school-girls,  their  pale  cheeks  flush- 
ing, half  in  anger,  half  in  pleasure,  at  the  admiring  glances 
of  clerks  and  students;  young  fathers,  with  still  younger- 
looking  mothers  leaning  on  their  arms,  followed  by  giggling 
boys  and  girls,  pausing  to  chat  with  some  old  acquaintance 
equally  happy  and  equally  blest ;  while  the  children  astonished 
each  other  by  an  account  of  their  New- Year's  gifts,  and  the 
lots  of  marbles  they  intended  to  purchase ;  while  sober,  discreet 
matrons,  and  silver-haired,  benign-looking  gentlemen,  mindful 
of  the  time  when  they  were  young,  passed  by  with  a  glance 
of  pleasure  and  a  silent  "  God  bless  you." 

Ah,  it  was  a  very  pleasant  sight !  and  so  little  Bessie 
Lyman  thought,  ovhen,  wearied  by  her  long  walk,  and 
benumbed  with  the  cold,  she  emerged  from  the  sunless  atmos- 
phere of  North  Main-street  into  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the 
city.  It  seemed  to  the  child  as  if  the  air  was  warmer  there, 
for  the  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  fell  brightly  on  the  pave- 
ments, and  were  reflected  from  the  plate-glass  windows  that 
lined  the  street;  and  the  feeling  was  deepened  by  the  sight 


LITTLE   BESSIE.  165 

of  so  many  gay  and  happy  faces.  Happiness  is  contagious, 
and  blessed  be  God  that  it  is  80 !  else  little  Bessie  Lyman'a 
fate  would  have  been  harder  still,  — for  very  few  among  all 
that  gay  throng  noticed  the  poorly  clad  little  figure  that  stole 
along  close  to  the  side-wall,  as  if  she  felt  herself  an  intruder ; 
yet  her  heart  gathered  in  all  the  stray  smiles  and  multiplied 
them  by  that  wondrous  process  unknown  to  any  save  children, 
until  she  almost  forgot  her  cold  and  weariness ;  and  the  happy 
greetings  of  the  New  Year,  that  sprang  from  lip  to  lip  up 
and  down  the  wide  street,  seemed  addressed  to  her,  and  fell 
upon  her  heart  like  a  blessing.  But  when  she  left  that  broad 

avenue,  and  entered  F street,  the  cold  breeze  from  the 

ice-bound  river  almost  took  away  her  breath,  and  at  the 
thought  of  the  long,  gloomy  store,  and  the  unsympathizing 
faces  there,  she  shuddered,  and  the  numbness  again  crept 
over  her  heart.  A  few  moments'  walk  brought  her  to  the 
door,  and,  timidly  swinging  it  back,  she  entered  and  placed 
her  basket  of  work  on  the  counter.  One  glance  showed  her 
that  there  was  no  one  in  the  store  but  a  young  boy,  who 
stood  at  the  further  end,  arranging  some  goods.  He  advanced 
towards  her,  and,  feeling  encouraged  at  the  sight  of  his  round, 
good-humored  face,  she  told  her  errand  freely. 

The  boy  took  the  work  from  the  basket,  counting  the  num- 
ber of  pieces  as  he  did  so.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  glancing  at 
the  bill  which  the  old  lady  had  placed  in  the  basket.  "  Two 
dozen  pair,  at  sixpence  per  pair,  amount  to  just  two  dollars. 
Do  you  want  the  money  to-day,  little  girl  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  you  did  not  get  here  a  little  earlier. 

Mr.  G and  all  the  rest  have  gone  home,  and  left  me  to 

close  the  store,  for  we  are  to  have  a  half-holiday,"  he  replied, 
looking  up  in  her  face  for  the  first  time,  as  if  he  was  sure  she 
would  sympathize  with  his  pleasure ;  but  one  glance  at  her 
cold  cheeks  and  eyes  filled  with  tears  sufficed  to  change  his 
mood,  and  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  forgot;  you  must  be  very 


166         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

cold,  little  girl.  Come  up  to  the  stove  and  warm  yourself. 
I  was  half  frozen  myself  while  building  fires  this  morning." 

"Thank  you,  I  am  cold;  but  —  but  don't  you  think  you 
can  pay  me  for  the  work?  We  need  this  money  so  much," 
she  said,  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can.  I  never  meddle  with  the  accounts  ; 

but  stop  —  Mr.  Gr was  talking  with  Deacon  S a 

moment  since,  just  up  the  street.  Perhaps  they  are  there 
yet,"  he  continued,  going  to  the  door  and  looking  out. 
"  Yes,  there  they  are  by  his  own  door.  If  you  make  haste 
you  can  catch  him  before  he  goes  into  the  house." 

In  a  second  little  Bessie  was  hurrying  up  the  street,  while 
the  young  clerk  turned  to  his  work,  saying : 

"  How  much  she  looks  like  Fanny  Lewis ;  and  Fan  was  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  whole  school." 

The  girl's  nimble  feet  soon  brought  her  to  the  place  where 
the  gentlemen  were  standing ;  but  when  she  saw  how  busily 
they  were  talking,  she  felt  tempted  to  pass  on  without  speak- 
ing. But  the  thought  of  her  grandmother's  trembling  hands 
and  their  scanty  store  gave  her  courage.  She  paused  near 
the  door-step,  and  waited  an  opportunity  to  prefer  her  claim. 
Here  also  the  sunbeams  fell  brightly,  and  the  sound  of  sweet 
voices  and  merry  laughter  reached  her  from  the  parlor,  and 
occasionally  the  bright,  rosy  faces  of  children  were  pressed 
against  the  plate-glass  windows,  the  very  pictures  of  mirth 
and  happiness.  There  was  such  an  air  of  comfort  about  the 
house  that  little  Bessie  could  not  help  being  infected  by  it. 
She  began  to  dream  bright  pictures  of  the  nice  supper  that 
she  and  grandmother  should  have  when  she  reached  home 
with  her  parcels  of  tea  and  sugar ;  and,  while  she  is  thus 
occupied,  let  us  turn  a  while  to  the  conversation  of  the  gen- 
tlemen. They  were  both  men  who  take  a  very  active  inter- 
est in  the  various  benevolent  societies  of  the  day ;  and,  as 
their  conversation  related  to  the  condition  of  the  heathen 


LITTLE    BESSIE.  167 

and  the  successor  missions,  there  will  be  no  impropriety  in 
our  acting  as  reporter. 

"  We  have  indeed  great  reason  to  rejoice  in  the  success  of 

our  operations,"  remarked  Deacon  S .  "  The  political 

changes  of  the  last  year  have  given  us  access  to  many  fields 
hitherto  closed  against  us.  But,  unfortunately,  we  cannot 
profit  by  this  great  dispensation ;  for,  unless  some  great  and 
extra  exertions  are  made  to  relieve  the  board  of  its  embar- 
rassments, we  shall  be  obliged  to  curtail  instead  of  extending 
our  operations.  The  disbursements  of  the  last  year  have 
exceeded  the  receipts  by  many  thousand  dollars." 

"  A  most  unfortunate  state  of  affairs,  truly,"  replied  Mr. 

G ;  "  and,  what  is  worse,  the  apathy  that  marks  the 

public  mind  throughout  the  country,  on  this  subject,  is  truly 
deplorable.  Something  must  be  done  at  once ;  we  must  be 
more  strenuous  in  our  efforts  —  more  self-denying.  Much 
more  can  be  done  in  our  own  church  and  society  than  has 
been.  I  feel  my  own  remissness  in  this  respect ;  and  " — 

"  With  as  little  reason  as  any  man  in  the  society,"  blandly 

interrupted  Deacon  S .  "  We  all  know  that  no  collector 

ever  leaves  your  office  empty-handed.  But  what  have  we 
here  ?  "  he  continued,  directing  the  attention  of  his  friend  to 
the  child. 

"Some  street  beggar,  of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Gr . 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  child?  "  he  asked,  sharply. 

"  Please,  sir,"  began  the  child,  drawing  from  her  mitten 
the  somewhat  time-stained  paper,  on  which  the  trembling 
hand  of  Grandmother  Lyman  had  made  out  the  bill,  and  hold- 
ing it  forth  —  "  Please,  sir  " — 

But  Mr.  G ,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  interrupted 

her.  "  Put  up  your  paper,  child,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  I  never 
read  petitions.  They  are  mere  impositions,  —  and  you,  child, 
are  old  enough  to  know  the  wickedness  of  your  course.  If 
you  are  really  in  want,"  he  continued,  seeing  her  frightened 
look,  "  there  is  the  alms-house,  which  the  public  has  gener- 


168          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

ously  provided  for  all  such  characters.  And  now,  go,"  he 
said,  still  more  sternly,  "  unless  you  wish  to  be  sent  there  !  " 

As  the  poor,  terrified  child  stole  quickly  away,  without 
daring  to  look  behind  her,  he  turned  to  the  deacon,  saying : 

"  I  never  encourage  street  beggars.  It  only  confirms  them 
in  idleness  and  vice.  It  is  deplorable  to  see  how  this  evil  in- 
creases with  us.  Nezt  time  the  city  council  meet,  I  shall 
bring  the  subject  before  them,  for  it  is  becoming  a  perfect 
nuisance.  But  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  and 
your  family  at  my  wife's  party  to-night,  when  we  can  speak 
further  of  these  matters." 

And,  with  a  polite  rejoinder  from  the  deacon,  the  gentle- 
men parted. 

Mr.  G found  a  great  many  things  in  this  world  "  truly 

deplorable."  He  was  a  well-meaning  man,  but  ignorant, 
narrow-minded,  and  conceited.  Consequently  he  often  fell 
into  the  mistake  of  looking  more  to  the  shams  of  things  than 
the  reality,  and  this  was  indeed  "  truly  deplorable." 

Little  Bessie  hurried  a  few  rods  up  the  street,  then,  over- 
come by  disappointment,  hunger,  cold  and  fatigue,  she  sank 
against  a  brick  wall ;  and,  drawing  her  scanty  mantle  about 
her,  to  conceal  her  face,  wept  bitterly.  It  was  about  the  city 
dinner  hour,  and  that  cross  street  was  comparatively  deserted. 
The  few  young  clerks  that  hurried  along  were  far  too  intent 
on  the  thought  of  their  dinner,  or  the  afternoon  holiday,  to 
trouble  themselves  about  the  forlorn-looking  object  that 
crouched  agaidst  the  wall ;  besides,  ragged,  miserable-looking 
children  were  no  novelty  to  them. 

Presently  a  number  of  Irish  laborers  came  tramping  up  the 
street,  the  rosy  hue  of  their  broad  cheeks  deepened  almost  to 
purple  by  the  intense  cold.  As  they  hurried  along,  one  of 
them  almost  stumbled  over  the  child,  who  seemed  to  have  lost 
both  'sight  and  hearing  in  the  bitterness  of  her  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  Faith,  me  darlint ! "  said  the  man,  catching  her  by  the 


LITTLE   BES3IK.  169 

arm, "  and  it 's  a  pretty  time  ye  have  taken  to  be  sunnin*  ye'self 
here  like  a  toad,  when  the  cowld  is  so  great  that  the  blessed 
sun  himself  can't  shine,  but  is  creeping  behind  yon  big  blanket 
of  a  cloud  ;  and  the  wind  is  piping  through  the  streets  like  a 
thousand  Connaught  fiddlers,  every  tooth  in  a  boy's  head 
dancing  a  devil's  hornpipe  to  the  same.  There,  hinney,  trot 
along  wid  ye." 

Seeing  that  the  child  made  no  attempt  to  move,  but  again 
leaned  heavily  against  the  wall,  he  drew  aside  her  hood,  and, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  her  pale,  tear-dimmed  face,  he  yelled 
after  his. companions : 

"  Hello,  boys !  Bide  a  bit.  The  child  is  kilt  with  cowld 
or  hunger.  Cheer  up,"  he  continued,  seeing  her  frightened 
look,  "  the  boys  are  all  friends.  Spake,  if  you  can,  and  tell 
us  what  is  it  that 's  ailing  ye." 

Mikey  Corcoran's  rich  brogue  was  almost  incomprehensible 
to  poor  Bessie,  but  the  genuine  kindness  of  the  tone  was  not 
to  be  mistaken  *  and,  taking  courage  from  that  and  the  kind 
faces  gajt^ered  around  her,  she  strove  to  keep  back  her  tears 
while  she  told  her  simple  story. 

"  The  marciless  villain !  May  the  curse  of  St.  Patrick 
light  on  him !  "  exclaimed  Mike. 

"  Warm  as  he  is  in  his  grand  biggin  yonder,  he  will  find 
it  hotter  in  purgatory,  I  'm  thinking !  "  cried  another. 

"  And  it 's  the  tay,  and  sugar,  and  bread,  ye  shall  have 
for  the  ould  one,  and  a  warm  bit  for  ye'self,  if  ye  will  just  step 
round  the  corner  wid  us  to  Pat  Reilly's ;  though  it 's  little 
we  have,  to  give,  and  the  mouths  at  home  are  gaping  like 
young  swallows  at  Whitsuntide." 

"  That  ye  shall ;  and,  Terence,  my  boy,  may  the  blessed 
Virgin  send  you  a  thousand  happy  new-years,  just  for  that 
same  thought !"  exclaimed  Mikey,  catching  the  child  up  in 
his  brawny  arms,  and  leading  the  way  to  the  little  dwelling  of 
Pat  Reilly. 

15 


170  LEA VIS    TBOM    THE   TREE   IQDBA8YL. 

PART     III. 

An  hour  later,  little  Bessie  had  lefl  the  city  behind  her, 
and  was  crossing  the  wide,  bleak  plain  that  stretches  between 

H and  M .  She  was  so  much  occupied  by  the 

events  of  the  day,  that  she  did  not  see  that  the  sun  was  quite 
hidden  by  the  "  big  blanket  of  a  cloud,"  as  her  Irish  friend 
termed  it,  nor  that  the  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  particles 
of  snow.  But  when  the  great  flakes  began  to  fall,  she  quick- 
ened her  pace,  for  she  knew  that  her  grandmother  would  be 
anzious  for  her  safety ;  besides,  she  much  feared  that  the  little 
parcels  in  her  basket,  the  gifts  of  the  kind-hearted  Irishmen, 
would  get  wet.  But  she  could  not  out-travel  the  storm. 

Thicker  and  faster  fell  the  great  white  flakes,  now  whirled 
in  her  face  and  eyes  by  the  wild  wind  that  swept  over  the 
plain,  now  sinking  to  the  earth  as  quietly  as  the  dews  of 
summer.  For  some  time  the  child  beguiled  the  weariness  of 
the  way  by  noting  the  increasing  depth  of  the  snow  by  her 
own  footprints ;  but  she  soon  grew  weary  of  this,  and  began 
to  look  —  0,  how  earnestly !  —  for  some  traveller  to  overtake 
her,  and  give  her  a  ride. 

Soon  her  hands  and  feet  began  to  grow  stiff  and  numb,  and 
she  could  hardly  make  her  way  through  the  heavy  snow.  0, 
how  glad  she  was,  when  she  saw  the  guide-board  that  pointed 

to  N !  for  then  she  knew  she  was  but  two  miles  distant 

from  home.  She  paused,  and,  dashing  the  snow  from  her 
long  eyelashes,  looked  round.  It  was  almost  dark,  but  she 
knew  that  from  that  point  there  was  a  foot-path,  leading 
through  the  woods,  that  would  shorten  the  distance  a  good 
half  mile.  It  was  an  unwise  step ;  but  she  soon  made  her 
way  through  the  drifts  over  the  fence,  and  began  to  lay  her 
course  by  the  well-known  shrubs  and  bushes,  for,  by  that  time 
the  snow  lay,  even  in  the  shallowest  places,  several  inches 
deep.  She  soon  found  that,  in  the  deepening  twilight,  and 
blinded  by  the  enow,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  distinguish  one 


LITTLE    BESSIE.  171 

clump  of  leafless  shrubs  from  another.  Still  she  struggled  on, 
unconscious,  for  a  time,  that  every  step  took  her  further  from 
home  than  before. 

Finally  she  was  brought  to  a  stand  by  a  ledge  of  rocks  that 
rose  perpendicularly  before  her  to  the  height  of  many  feet. 
Then  she  knew  that  she  was  lost ;  but  hunger,  cold  and  ex- 
haustion, had  so  far  done  their  work,  that  she  felt  neither  fear 
nor  anxiety.  Numbness  and  stupefaction  had  seized  on  all 
her  faculties ;  she  only  felt  weary,  and,  0,  so  sleepy !  Still 
she  had  a  kind  of  indistinct  consciousness  that  she  should  die 
there  all  alone  in  the  woods;  therefore  she  knelt  down  at  the 
foot  of  an  old  sycamore,  that  grew  close  by  the  ledge,  and 
offered  her  nightly  petition  to  our  Father.  This  done,  she 
yielded  to  the  drowsiness  that  oppressed  her,  and  laid  herself 
down  in  a  sheltered  nook  beneath  a  shelving  rock. 

As  she  laid  her  head  on  the  cold,  frozen  earth,  she  thought 
of  the  little  birds  that  sat  in  the  catnip  under  the  window, 
the  morning  before.  "  God  cares  for  them  —  he  will  not  forget 
me,"  she  drowsily  murmured,  while  a  faint  smile  broke  round 
her  blue,  stiffening  lips.  Some  time  elapsed,  during  which 
there  was  no  more  suffering  for  little  Bessie.  She  dreamed 
of  lying  on  the  soft,  green  turf,  among  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 
violets,  anemones,  and  the  golden  adder's  tongue,  which  she 
loved  so  well,  while  above  her  hovered  those  sweet  angel  faces 
so  often  seen  in  her  dreams. 

Presently  there  was  a  sound,  as  of  something  wallowing 
through  the  snow  —  a  quick,  eager  snuffling  of  the  air  —  a 
few  short,  wild  barks,  and  then,  with  a  perfect  yell  of  delight, 
old  Jack  came  bounding  through  the  snow  to  her  side. 

How  like  humati  reason  seemed  the  instinct  of  the  noble 
animal !  How  tenderly  he  took  her  garments  in  his  teeth, 
and  shook  from  them  the  snow,  and  licked  her  hands  —  ay, 
and  her  face,  too  —  with  his  warm,  smooth  tongue  !  How 
extravagant  his  joy,  when  his  efforts  to  arouse  her  were 
crowned  with  success ' 


172          LEAVES  FROM  TBE  TREK  IGDRASYL. 

_^ 

"  Dear  old  Jack ! "  murmured  the  child,  as  his  piteous 
whining  reached  her  ears ;  "  I  have  no  dinner  for  you ;  in- 
deed, I  have  been  very  hungry  myself." 

At  length  she  sat  up  and  looked  about  her.  The  snow  had 
ceased  to  fall,  but  the  scene  looked  so  strange,  beneath  tho 
faint  light  of  the  wan,  ghostly-looking  moon,  that,  fbr  some 
moments,  Bessie  could  hardly  comprehend  her  situation.  But 
gradually  she  recalled  the  events  of  the  day,  and  with  them 
came  the  thoughts  of  her  grandmother's  anxiety  and  terror. 

41  Jack,"  she  said,  passing  her  arm  around  his  shaggy  neck, 
"  do  you  think  we  can  find  the  way  home  ?  " 

He  looked  up  in  her  face  a  moment,  with  an  expression  of 
almost  human  intelligence  in  his  dark  eyes,  then  turned,  as  if 
ready  to  go.  She  rose  to  follow  him,  but  found  that  she  could 
hardly  move  her  benumbed  limbs.  The  faithful  creature  led 
the  way,  often  looking  back,  as  if  to  encourage  her,  until, 
finally,  his  unerring  sagacity  led  them  to  her  grandmother's 
door. 

Years  have  passed,  and  Bessie  Lyman  is  now  the  petted 
plaything  and  acknowledged  heiress  of  Capt.  James  Lyman, 
who,  after  many  years  of  absence,  returned  in  time  to  soothe 
the  last  days  of  his  mother,  and  take  charge  of  her  little 
Bessie.  One  of  the  first  cares  of  the  warm-hearted  sailor  was 
to  seek  out  Mikey  Corcoran  and  his  companions,  and  reward 
them  four-fold  for  their  kindness  to  his  niece. 

As  to  Jack,  his  irascible  master,  touched  by  little  Bessie's 
gratitude  and  fondness  for  the  dog,  made  her  a  present  of  him ; 
for  which  good  deed  he  also  had  his  reward. 

The  noble  old  fellow  is  dead,  but  his  memory  is  faithfully 
cherished,  and,  over  the  fireplace  in  Captain  Lyman's  neat 
parlor,  hangs  a  large  painting,  which  even  Edwin  Landseer 
might  not  disdain,  and  which  Bessie  delights  to  point  out  to 
her  friends  as  the  portrait  of  old  Jack. 


SKETCHES  OF  OUR  VILLAGE, 


i. 
THE  STRIFE. 

Tu  follow  the  custom  of  certain  wise  and  learned  historians, 
reader,  we  ought  to  begin  at  the  beginning  (we  had  well-nigh 
put  that  in  French,  but,  after  all,  old  English  is  the  best), 
and  speak  of  the  geographical  position  of  our  village,  define 
its  boundaries  and  area,  describe  its  geological  formations, 
its  rivers,  lakes  and  mountains  (for  it  has  at  least  what  we 
dignify  by  these  names),  the  number  of  its  inhabitants,  etc. ; 
but  we  dislike  details,  and,  besides,  are  not  very  wise  our- 
selves, having  never  been  able  to  comprehend  why  the  sun, 
which  always  rises  in  the  east,  as  seen  from  our  home,  should, 
from  the  other  side  of  Tetoket,  seem  to  rise  in  a  directly  oppo- 
site direction. 

Moreover,  the  country  round  about  us  is  so  broken,  the 
roads  so  full  of  crooks  and  turns,  that,  unless  you  have  a 
Macgregor's  aversion  to  plains,  you  will  not  care  to  seek  us 
out.  Passing  by,  therefore,  these  particulars,  we  will  pro- 
ceed to  speak  of  the  wars,  foreign  and  civil,  that  have  at 
various  times  caused  dire  commotion  within  our  precincts ; 
for,  in  this  respect,  our  experience  somewhat  resembles  that 
of  Hector  Homespun,  the  renowned  tailor,  in  Cooper's  tale  of 
the  "  Red  Rover." 

We  begin  with  the  Pequod  war,  when  those  redoubted  cap- 
tains, Mason  of  Connecticut  and  Stoughton  of  Massachusetts, 
pursued  the  royal  Sassacus  and  his  routed  tribe  along  our 
15* 


174          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

borders,  halting  at  the  adjoining  settlement  of  Menunkatuck, 
to  behead  two  captive  sachems,  who  nobly  refused  to  betray 
their  chief.  The  name  of  the  spot  still  bears  witness  to  the 
deed.  It  is  now  the  site  of  a  fashionable  watering-place, 
but  we  never  pace  the  broad  piazzas  of  the  "  Sachem  Head 
House  "  without  recalling  this  scene,  and  it  requires  little  aid 
from  fancy  to  picture  forth  the  spot  as  it  was  at  that  time  - — 
the  rocky  point,  covered  with  the  primeval  growth  of  the 
forest ;  the  white-crested  waves  of  the  Sound,  sweeping  tow- 
ard the  beach  like  a  train  of  white-cowled  friars,  chanting  in 
low,  monotonous  murmurs  solemn  masses  for  the  souls  of  the 
waiting  victims ;  the  handful  of  soldiers,  resting  on  their  arms 
—  worn,  weary,  emaciated,  by  their  harassing  march  through 
the  wilderness ;  gazing  with  stern  countenances,  not  untouched 
by  admiration,  on  those  stately  stoics  of  the  woods,  as  they 
calmly  and  somewhat  contemptuously  await  the  order  which 
shall  send  them  to  the  happy  hunting-ground ;  while  in  the 
foreground  stood  the  English  captains  —  grim,  gaunt  and  un- 
dismayed —  the  very  personification  of  puritan  courage. 

We  shall  not  stay  to  describe  the  stout  resistance  which  our 
village  made  to  the  union  of  the  New  Haven  colony  with  that 
of  Connecticut,  seeing  that  it  is  duly  set  forth  in  that  famous 
remonstrance  called  the  "  New  Haven  Case  Stated,"  nor  dwell 
on  the  zeal  with  which  our  fathers  sped  the  regicides  on  their 
way  towards  that  settlement,  while  the  king's  commissioners 
gat  sipping  their  "  flip  "  with  the  good  old  Governor  Leete  at 
Menunkatuck  —  for  before  us  lie  the  days  of  "Seventy-six." 

Ah,  reader  !  could  you  just  sit  down  by  our  ingle-side,  we 
would  have  a  long  chat  about  those  perilous  times,  and  we 
would  get  the  ancients  of  our  village  to  tell  us  of  the  spirit 
with  which  their  fathers  and  brothers  responded  to  Washing- 
ton's requisition  for  more  troops  ;  of  Governor  Tryon's  pirat- 
ical expedition  to  New  Haven ;  of  the  bustle  and  confusion  in 
our  quiet  farm-houses,  as  the  echo  of  his  cannon  leaped  from 
hill  to  hill ;  and  of  the  stern  faces  and  resolute  tones  of  the 


THE   STRIFE.  175 

matrons,  as  they  packed  their  valuables,  and  gave  their  or- 
ders to  their  superannuated  slaves,  or  boys  too  young  for  the 
camp,  preparatory  to  seeking  safety  for  themselves  and  their 
little  ones  amid  the  thick  forests  of  Tetoket.  Then,  if  you 
are  not  one  of  those  who  deem  the  Chinese  plant  a  nuisance, 
you  should  sip  your  evening  beverage  from  one  of  those  tiny 
china  cups  which  date  far  back  in  the  colony  time ;  and  if  it 
chance  to  be  a  summer  evening,  we  should  place  the  round 
tea-table  (a  part  of  the  wedding  portion  of  one  of  those  same 
matrons)  under  the  great  hickory  in  front  of  the  house  —  a 
meet  spot  to  "  remember  the  days  of  old ; "  for,  rough  and 
massive  as  it  looks  now,  seventy-five  years  ago  its  smooth, 
lithe  stem  served  as  a  target  for  certain  relatives  of  ours, 
when  with  their  young  comrades  they  exchanged,  for  a  few, 
brief  days,  the  hard  service  of  the  camp  for  the  joys  of  home. 
Some  rods  to  the  east,  where  the  smooth  green  knoll  slopes 
down  to  the  spring  brook,  stood  the  old  farm-house.  Nothing 
remains  to  mark  its  site,  save  a  slight  hollow  in  the  green 
turf;  and  those  brave-hearted  boys  sleep  where  they  fell,  with 
scores  of  their  comrades,  on  the  field  of  White  Plains. 
Another  generation  has  passed  away,  but  the  old  hickory, 
with  the  bullets  still  in  its  heart,  lives  on,  rejoicing  in  the 
sunlight  and  dew,  blessing  us  with  its  shade  in  summer,  and 
rattling  down  its  burden  of  nuts  every  autumn  to  gladden 
the  hearts  of  the  children. 

But  we  forget  that  we  have  taken  upon  ourselves  the  office 
of  veritable  historian ;  therefore,  leaving  this  household  shade, 
we  shall  note  but  slightly  here  the  great  domestic  feud  that 
divided  the  village  a  la  Montague  et  Capulet,  somewhere 
about  the  year  1732,  as  to  the  proper  method  of  "pitching 
the  tunes  in  meeting ;"  it  being  sufficient  to  say  that,  in  the 
great  society  meeting  called  upon  that  occasion,  it  was  then 
and  there  voted,  by  a  large  majority,  to  the  great  dismay  of 
certain  musical  critics,  that  henceforth  the  clerk  be  permitted 
to  pitch  the  tune  after  which  method  he  pleased.  Neither 


176  LEAVES   FROM   THE   TAKE   IGDRASYL. 

shall  we  enter  into  the  details  of  the  bitter  ecclesiastical 
schisms,  during  whicn  several  influential  families  seceded  from 
the  established  Congregational  order,  and  took  upon  them- 
selves the  forms  of  the  Episcopal  church,  being  duly  de- 
nounced by  their  former  brethren  as  those  whom  Satan  doth 
desire  to  sift  as  wheat.  Though  the  prejudice  awakened  at 
that  time  still  continues,  in  some  degree,  to  tinge  the  fair  cur- 
rent of  life,  we  shall  not  stay  to  trace  its  effects  at  present  — 
for  our  interest  lies  chiefly  in  the  grand  pitched  battle  which 
occurred  in  the  centre  school-district  about  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century. 

The  old  school-house,  the  first  erected  in  the  district,  in 
which  the  village  fathers  had  learned  their  catechism  and 
conned  over  Dilworth's  spelling-book,  had  become  a  reproach, 
even  to  consciences  usually  dormant  to  everything  like  com- 
fort or  convenience  in  school-houses;  and,  after  years  of 
deliberation  and  much  canvassing,  they  determined  to  erect  a 
new  building  —  one  which  should  reflect  honor  on  themselves 
and  the  whole  town. 

We  must  depart  from  our  original  intention  so  far  as  to 
say  that  the  site  of  our  village  is  a  small,  basin-shaped  val- 
ley, scooped  out  from  amid  the  hills,  through  the  middle  of 
which  a  small  but  beautiful  stream  goes  loitering  like  a  truant 
child.  This  stream  (we  call  it  river)  separates  the  village 
common  from  the  ancient  grave-yard,  where  sleep  the  first 
settlers,  and,  crossing  the  main  road,  almost  encircles  what 
still  continues  to  be  called  the  new  grave-yard,  though  here 
and  there  a  sunken  grave,  with  its  rudely-sculptured  slab  of 
red  freestone,  proves  that  many  years  have  elapsed  since  the 
first  lone  dweller  was  laid  there.  A  few  feet  to  the  west  of 
the  old  grave-yard  stood,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  the 
old  meeting-house,  constructed  after  the  most  rigid  puritanic 
notions  of  architecture,  without  steeple  or  bell,  and  with  a 
multitude  of  small  square  windows,  which  gave  it  more  the 
appearance  of  a  great  warehouse  than  anything  else.  Beyond 


THE   STRIFE.  177 

this,  the  open  common  stretches  westward  several  rods,  and 
here  the  district  decided  to  erect  their  new  house.  Nothing 
like  the  little,  low,  brown  house  in  which  they  had  tasted  the 
benefit  of  birch  and  Daboll,  would  content  them  now ;  noth- 
ing short  of  a  two-story,  two-chimneyed  building,  with  a  room 
on  the  ground  floor  for  the  common  school,  and  the  one  above 
for  an  academy,  to  the  want  of  which  they  had  become  sud- 
denly conscious. 

It  was  certainly  a  grand  affair,  superior  to  anything  in  the 
adjacent  villages  ;  and  who  shall  blame  them  if  they  did  feel 
certain  pleasant  titillations  in  the  region  of  approbativeness, 
as  they  gazed  upon  the  belfry,  surmounted  by  its  glittering 
vane  —  that  belfry  from  which,  alas !  no  bell  was  ever  des- 
tined to  sound  ? 

As  it  was  impossible  to  complete  the  building  before  the 
period  arrived  for  the  commencement  of  the  winter  school,  it 
was  decided  to  finish  the  lower  room,  and  leave  the  rest  until 
the  spring  vacation.  This  was  done,  and  a  teacher  engaged, 
whose  chief  recommendation  seemed  to  consist  in  the  fact  that 
he  had  taught  several  terms,  was  very  impartial,  and  a  rigid 
disciplinarian.  In  temper  he  was  hasty  and  dogmatic,  and, 
like  too  many  of  his  class,  seemed  to  be  utterly  deficient  in 
that  wisdom  which  seeks  to  win  the  heart  of  childhood,  rather 
than  compel  the  intellect.  Ferule  in  hand,  he  drove  the  chil- 
dren into  the  house  and  out,  he  drove  them  through  their  les- 
sons and  recitations,  and  thus  he  had  driven  through  several 
winters,  until  he  received  his  wages  —  by  far  the  most  impor- 
tant part  of  the  contract  with  him,  for  what  could  he  have 
earned  on  the  farm  during  the  short  days  of  winter?  His 
impartiality  was  manifested  by  punishing,  on  every  possible 
occasion,  the  children  of  those  who  were  officially  connected 
with  the  school ;  thereby,  as  he  thought,  showing  his  indepen- 
dence. It  was  not  long  before  his  severity  began  to  give  rise 
to  complaints,  which  were  duly  resented  by  the  party  in 
favor  of  rigid  discipline ;  and  thus  began  the  great  storm 


178          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASVt. 

which  swept  over  the  village,  like  the  sirocco,  blinding  the 
eyes  and  stifling  the  consciences,  causing  many  families  that 
had  hitherto  sailed  the  sea  of  life  together  to  part  company, 
and  send  after  each  other  bitter  words  and  scowls  of  defiance, 
instead  of  good  wishes  and  friendly  cheer. 

Ithiel  Chittenden,  or,  to  give  his  military  title  and  name 
as  commonly  abbreviated  by  his  neighbors,  Leftenant  Chinnin, 
had  been  one  of  the  most  active  in  engaging  the  teacher ;  but 
as  long  as  the  punishment  fell  only  on  his  eldest  child,  Molly, 
a  beautiful,  high-spirited  girl  of  thirteen,  whatever  he  might 
have  thought,  he  held  his  peace,  only  replying  to  her  indig- 
nant complaints,  and  hearty  wishes  that  the  teacher  might 
slip  from  the  old  crossing-pole  into  the  river,  and  get  half 
drowned,  or  fall  down  on  the  ice  —  anything  to  oblige  him 
to  leave  the  school  —  with  a  "  Tut,  tut,  Molly ;  I  dare  say  you 
are  as  noisy  and  mischievous  as  a  flock  of  king-birds." 

But  when  Mr.  Evarts  laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  his  pete, 
his  little  twin  boys,  Joseph  and  Benjamin  —  when,  week  after 
week,  they  came  home  and  held  up  to  him  their  little,  fat 
hands,  swollen  and  purple  from  the  hard  strokes  of  the  ferule, 
his  spirit  was  moved  within  him.  He  sought  an  interview 
with  the  teacher,  and  remonstrated  earnestly  with  him  on  the 
wrong  of  his  undue  severity.  The  teacher  indignantly  and 
somewhat  insultingly  resented  what  he  termed  his  interfer- 
ence, and  manifested  his  resentment  and  independence  by 
punishing  still  more  severely  every  little  fault  of  his  children. 

Notwithstanding  his  warlike  title,  the  leftenant  was  a 
peaceably-disposed  man ;  it  took  a  good  deal  to  rouse  and 
excite  his  combativeness ;  but  this  object  once  fairly  attained, 
he  manifested  something  like  the  obstinate  tenacity  of  the 
bull-dog.  The  circumstance  of  the  interview  between  him 
and  the  teacher  became  known,  and  their  words  duly  reported 
and  distorted  to  suit  the  views  of  the  contending  parties. 
He  explained,  corrected  and  remonstrated,  until,  out  of  all 
patience,  he  vowed  (the  leftenant  never  swore)  by  the  great 


THE  STRIFE.  179 

John  Rogers,  that  the  teacher  should  quit  the  village,  or  his 
children  the  school. 

The  party  in  favor  of  rigid  discipline  held  up  their  hands 
in  holy  horror  at  this  manifestation  of  weakness.  They  shook 
their  heads  ominously  when  they  spoke  of  little  Joe  and 
Benje,  and  talked  dolorously  of  the  many  instances  in  which 
children,  born  ^o  their  parents  late  in  life,  had  been  ruined 
themselves  and  brought  ruin  on  their  families,  all  for  the 
want  of  a  little  wholesome  discipline.  One  or  two  even  went 
so  far  as  to  question  whether  they  were  justified  in  permitting 
him  to  retain  his  commission,  as  his  conduct  might  tend  to 
produce  a  laxity  of  discipline  in  the  militia,  thereby  endan- 
gering the  character  of  that  national  bulwark. 

The  aggrieved  party,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  upon  him 
as  little  less  a  martyr  than  the  worthy  lecturer  on  divinity 
whose  name  he  had  invoked,  and  they  began  to  look  upon 
the  little  twin  boys  with  something  like  the  same  interest 
with  which  they  had  been  taught  to  view  the  nine  small  chil- 
dren of  that  worthy  man,  as  represented  in  a  wood-cut  that 
invariably  graced  the  pages  of  the  New  England  Primer. 

Those  who  are  unacquainted  with  that  phase  of  social  life 
manifested  in  country  villages,  can  have  no  conception  of  the 
bitterness  and  length  to  which  petty  quarrels  can  be  carried. 
Not  that  the  people  are  worse,  but  their  facilities  are  better. 
There  are  few  topics  of  foreign  interest  among  them,  few 
incidents  occur  to  break  the  ordinary  routine  of  life,  and 
they  are  consequently  much  occupied  with  local  affairs.  Be- 
sides, there  is  a  certain  class,  which  is  never  lacking  in  any 
society,  the  members  of  which  are  far  better  versed  in  the 
origin,  faults,  foibles,  weaknesses,  errors  and  faux  pas  of 
every  individual,  than  they  are  with  their  own ;  and  these, 
eet  on  by  one  or  two  adroit  wire-pullers,  would  breed  a  quar- 
rel in  Paradise. 

Moreover,  the  matter  is  still  worse  where  the  families  are 
all  connected  by  marriage  or  blood,  as  is  the  case  with  us, 


180          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

and  where  they  still  retain,  to  a  degree  perhaps  beyond  any 
other  place  in  New  England,  the  old  English  aristocracy  of 
family,  the  first  question  with  many  of  our  older  people  be- 
ing, to  this  day,  whenever  a  stranger  is  spoken  of,  "  What  is 
his  family  —  what  is  his  breed  ?  " 

This,  perhaps,  is  owing  to  the  circumstance  that  eight  out 
of  ten  of  the  fine  farms  in  our  township  are  ^wned  and  culti- 
vated by  the  lineal  descendants  of  their  original  owners,  and 
the  traveller  who  chances  to  loiter  away  an  half  hour  or  so, 
while  waiting  for  his  dinner  at  the  village  inn,  among  the 
mossy  stones  in  the  old  grave-yard,  may  hear  most  of  the 
names  so  rudely  carved  there  a  century  ago,  shouted  forth 
again  and  again,  by  the  noisy  schoolboys  on  the  adjacent 
common. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  our  village  was  soon  in  a  great  uproar. 
The  teacher,  the  original  cause  of  contention,  soon  served 
only  as  a  central  figure  in  the  dark  picture,  around  which 
became  drawn,  in  no  neutral  tints,  all  the  poor  human  frail- 
ties of  which  each  of  the  combatants  had  been  guilty,  and 
some,  doubtless,  of  which  they  never  had  thought.  And  so 
did  it  gloom  the  social  atmosphere,  that  all  grew  dark  and 
stifling,  until  men  could  no  longer  see  to  discern  the  fair 
features  of  truth  and  charity,  and,  what  was  still  worse, 
even  women  and  young  children  felt  its  baleful  influence. 

There  were  not  wanting  some  calm  souls  to  preach  for- 
bearance and  peace,  but  their  voices  were  scarcely  heard 
above  the  din ;  and  even  the  strongest  influence  then  known 
in  a  country  village,  reverence  for  the  minister,  was  power- 
less in  this  case.  The  old  man  who  held  the  pastoral  office 
at  this  time,  possessed  a  keen  insight  into  human  nature ;  he 
went  from  house  to  house,  reasoning,  exhorting  and  ridicul- 
ing ;  neither  did  he  fail  to  belabor  them  "  with  apostolic  blows 
and  thumps "  from  the  pulpit ;  but,  alas !  he  lived  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  could  not  cast  out  devils. 


THE  STRIFE.  181 

The  disciplinarians  having  the  majority,  and  being  deter- 
mined to  retain  Mr.  Evarts  in  the  school,  the  aggrieved  party 
seceded,  and,  leaving  the  new  house,  sacrificing  all  the  dollars, 
cents  and  mills  which  they  had  contributed  towards  it,  with 
many  self-complacent  reflections  on  the  similarity  of  their 
condition  with  that  of  ancient  Lot,  on  a  like  occasion,  went 
westward  some*  rods,  and  erected  a  small,  low  building  by  the 
way-side,  which  they  painted  a  bright  red,  perhaps  to  make 
the  contrast  between  it  and  the  white  one  they  had  left  as 
wide  as  possible.  Their  opponents  christened  it  the  Revenge, 
and  had  not  the  name  been  given  before  it  became  known  that 
they  had  engaged  for  teacher  an  out-and-out  Episcopalian, 
one  who  kept  Christmas,  and  actually  did  n't  cook  for  Thanks- 
giving, nor  go  to  meeting  on  that  occasion,  they  might  have 
called  it  by  a  more  sinister  name. 

If  this  unhappy  quarrel  embittered  the  tempers  and  hearts 
of  friends  and  neighbors,  its  evil  effects  fell  not  less  heavily 
upon  their  children.  Some  of  them  took  so  completely  the 
tone  of  their  parents,  that  they  would  not  speak  to  their 
former  playmates ;  and  others,  who  neither  knew  nor  cared 
aught  about  the  quarrel,  were  forbidden  to  do  so  by  their 
parents.  None  felt  this  estrangement  more  keenly  than  little 
Molly  Chinnin,  and  Mark,  the  son  of  her  father's  neighbor, 
and,  until  this  miserable  contention,  most  intimate  friend, 
Ensign  Ross.  An  unbroken  friendship  had  subsisted  for  many 
years  between  the  families  of  these  men.  Their  homes  were 
separated  only  by  a  green  meadow  and  bit  of  pasture,  and 
from  infancy  they  had  shared  their  plays  and  lessons  together. 
Together  they  had  learned  to  skate  and  swim  ;  together  they 
had  conquered  vulgar  fractions,  and  received  due  punishment 
on  that  same  day  for  singeing  the  teacher's  long  queue  in 
commemoration  of  tha*  event ;  together  they  had  received 
their  commissions  in  the  militia ;  —  and  let  me  tell  you,  reader, 
that  a  commission  in  that  body,  which  at  the  present  day 
resemble?  Falstaff's  ragged  regiment,  was  at  that  time  con- 
16 


182         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

sidered  an  honor  not  unmeet  for  the  highest  dignitaries  in  the 
land.  Together  they  had  wooed,  wedded  and  settled  down 
on  the  old  homesteads,  rejoiced  over  the  birth  of  their  chil- 
dren, watched  their  growing  fondness  for  each  other ;  and,  as 
Mark  grew  up  tall  and  straight  as  a  young  pine,  and  Molly 
like  a  graceful,  beautiful  green  willow,  there  was  nothing 
said ;  but  as  they  watched  them  coming  home  from  school, 
full  of  mirth  and  mischief,  or  seated  over  the  brawling  river, 
on  the  old  elm-shaded  pole,  conning  their  lesson  from  the 
same  wofully  dog's-eared  book,  or  disputing  about  the  exact 
number  of  words  on  a  certain  page,  the  thoughts  of  both 
sometimes  reverted  to  a  beautiful  knoll,  midway  between 
their  dwellings,  which  had  often  been  pointed  out  as  a  fine 
building  site,  with  a  kind  of  wonder  as  to  whether  it  would 
ever  be  used  for  that  purpose. 

Ensign  Ross  had  no  child  save  Mark ;  and,  having  the  fate 
of  several  only  children  before  his  eyes,  he  early  determined 
that  his  boy  should  not  be  spoiled  by  being  "babied." 
Therefore,  he  never  took  his  part  in  any  of  his  childish  squab- 
bles, and  Mark  early  learned  that  if  he  got  into  trouble  there 
%as  no  use  in  complaining  at  home,  for  his  mother  was  a 
woman  of  too  much  sense  to  pet  and  pity  him  in  secret. 

Though  he  heartily  detested  Mr.  Evarts,  —  and  the  feeling, 
to  judge  from  the  blows  and  thumps  bestowed  upon  him,  was 
duly  returned,  —  yet  his  father  knew  nothing  of  the  matter ; 
or,  if  his  wife  sometimes  mentioned  that  Mark  had  been  pun- 
ished, he  usually  replied  with,  "  Ay,  ay,  and  he  deserved  it 
richly,  I  dare  say !  " 

Of  course  he  was  little  inclined  to  sympathize  with  the 
peculiar  indulgence  which  his  old  friend  manifested  toward 
his  late-born  twins. 

"  Considerin'  that  Molly  is  an  onljidaughter,  and  was  for 
a  long  time  an  only  child,"  was  his  frequent  remark  to  his 
wife,  "  I  allow  that  they  did  pretty  well  by  her.  But  it  puts 
me  out  of  all  manner  of  patience,  to  see  such  a  man  as  Ithiel 


THE   STRIFE.  188 

Chinnin  led  by  the  nose  by  two  such  imps.  Why,  it  makes 
no  difference  who  he  is  talking  to ;  if  it  were  Thomas  Jefferson, 
and  one  of  those  precious  boys  were  to  break  in  with  a  string 
of  questions  as  long  as  the  moral  law,  he  would  stop  and  an- 
swer them  all.  He  not  only  makes  a  goose  of  himself,  but 
spoils  the  boys,  and  I  must  tell  him  so." 

He  did  tell  him,  or  at  least  tried  to ;  but  somehow,  in  this 
case,  his  hints  failed  of  their  usual  effect.  The  truth  was,  the 
leftenant  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  least  possible  tendency 
towards  weakness  where  his  boys  were  concerned  ;  he  did  not 
like  to  admit  it,  even  to  himself,  and  the  frequent  hints  of  his 
neighbor  touched  upon  a  sore  spot. 

Ensign  Ross  was  by  no  means  hard  or  unfeeling.  He  was 
naturally  genial  and  jovial,  but  he  had  contrived  to  get  certain 
fixed  ideas  into  his  head,  especially  upon  the  management  of 
children,  beyond  which  he  never  troubled  himself  to  look. 
"  Spare  the  rod,  and  spoil  the  child,"  was  scripture  with  him, 
and  he  wanted  nothing  better.  He  was  naturally  impatient, 
and  could  not  brook  interruption,  especially  from  children ; 
therefore,  he  often  censured  as  weakness  that  which  was  sim- 
ply good  nature  in  his  slower  and  more  patient  neighbor. 
When  the  teacher  punished  the  little  boys  so  severely,  he 
stoutly  defended  him,  without  inquiring  into  their  offence 
or  listening  to  their  father's  explanation,  and  read  the  lef- 
tenant such  a  lecture  on  his  folly  and  weakness  in  all  that 
concerned  his  boys,  that  the  latter  was  deeply  grieved  and 
astonished.  Indeed,  upon  reflection,  he  felt,  himself,  that  he 
had  said  many  things  that  were  unwarranted,  even  by  their 
long  friendship ;  but  he  did  not  like  to  confess  it,  and  con- 
tented himself  with  reasoning  after  this  manner  : 

"  If  he  has  a  mind  to  be  mad  at  a  hasty  but  well-meant 
word,  why,  let  him."  ^ 

Chinnin,  on  his  part,  thought  more  deliberately.  "  If  Jon- 
athan Ross  thinks  I  have  turned  into  a  natural  fool,  why,  let 
him  seek  those  that  are  wiser." 


184          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Thus  arose  a  frosty  atmosphere  between  them,  chilling  alike 
the  ripened  fruit  of  the  past,  and  the  opening  hopes  of  the 
future.  Had  they  been  left  to  themselves,  doubtless  the 
memory  of  the  past  and  a  sense  of  their  present  folly  would 
have  brought  back  the  summer  to  their  hearts  ;  but  a  rumor 
of  their  feelings  got  abroad,  as  such  things  always  do  in  a 
country  village,  and  the  powers  of  scandal  and  schism  took 
the  matter  up,  going  from  one  to  the  other,  watching  every 
word  and  look,  distorting,  exaggerating  and  misrepresenting, 
until,  after  a  few  weeks,  they  could  no  longer  discern,  in  the 
pictures  held  up  to  them  by  these  meddlers,  any  trace  of  the 
old,  friendly  features.  Still  there  were  some  grains  of  truth 
in  all  these  reports ;  for  they  were  by  no  means  happy,  and 
their  state  of  heart  and  mind  was  one  which  is  prone  to  think 
and  say  bitter  things. 

From  the  day  that  Leftenant  Chinnin  withdrew  his  children 
from  school,  they  ceased  to  speak  together,  for  the  epithets, 
"  Dotard  "  and  "  Busybody,"  which  had  been  angrily  applied 
to  each  other  on  that  occasion,  seemed  to  stick  in  their  throats, 
and  prevent  anything  like  a  friendly  utterance. 

All  through  the  remainder  of  the  winter  the  snow  lay  white 
and  unbroken  on  the  fields  between  the  two  dwellings ;  no 
path,  trodden  hard  and  smooth  as  ice,  marked  the  constant 
intercourse  of  the  families;  no  small  foot-prints,  deviating  from 
the  path  at  every  few  yards,  gave  evidence  of  the  presence 
and  exploring  propensities  of  Mark  and  Molly.  Although  not 
absolutely  forbidden  to  speak  with  each  other,  they  seldom 
met  now,  —  never,  indeed,  save  when  Mark  contrived  eo 
come  round  that  way  from  school,  and  exchange  a  few  words 
with  her  through  the  palings  of  the  front  fence,  during  which 
intercourse  he  never  failed  to  express  a  very  hearty  wish 
that  Mr.  Evarts  had  been  in  JerichPbefore  he  ever  saw  our 
village. 

Thus  the  strife  raged  through  the  winter  months,  until  the 
raw  winds  and  heavy  thaws  of  March  came,  bringing  with 


THE   STRIFE.  185 

them  a  scourge  which  many  in  their  secret  consciences  felt  to 
be  a  judgment  for  their  sins,  —  the  scarlet  fever,  or,  as  it  was 
then  called,  the  black  canker.  Something  was  necessary  to 
bring  them  back  to  a  sense  of  dependence  and  human  broth- 
erhood. Instead  of  a  blessing,  they  had  made  their  children 
a  subject  of  contention,  and  God  in  his  wisdom  took  many  of 
them  home  to  himself.  The  rebuke  was  felt.  Those  who  had 
passed  each  other  with  stiff  necks  and  averted  faces,  again 
clasped  hands  over  the  graves  of  their  little  ones,  and  before 
God's  altar,  in  silence  and  tears. 

For  a  time  the  disease  seemed  inevitably  fatal ;  fear  and 
grief  sat  upon  every  countenance  ;  the  school  was  closed,  and 
parents  took  every  precaution  to  guard  their  children  from  the 
fatal  contagion.  Thus  it  happened  that  Mark  Ross  was,  for 
several  weeks,  shut  off  from  all  communication  with  his  young 
associates.  He  chafed  like  a  young  lion  in  his  confinement, 
more  especially  when  he  heard  that  the  fever  had  seized  upon 
the  leftenant's  little  boys,  and  it  was  thought  that  they  must 
die.  They  had  been  great  favorites  with  Mark,  and  if  they 
were  spoiled,  as  his  father  said,  he  knew  that  Molly  and  him- 
self were,  in  a  measure,  answerable  for  it,  for  they  had  always 
taken  their  part,  and  sturdily  defended  them,  right  or  wrong. 
He  longed  to  go  over  and  see  them,  but  he  knew  that  neither 
of  his  parents  would  consent  to  this.  And,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  not  the  less  did  his  kind-hearted  mother  and  impulsive 
father  long  to  go  over  and  speak  words  of  sympathy  and  com- 
fort to  their  stricken  neighbors.  But  submission  to  his  will 
on  her  part,  and  a  sense  of  shame  and  wrong  done  and  re- 
ceived on  his,  kept  them  both  silent.  But  when  the  news 
?ame  that  Molly,  too,  was  stricken  down,  Mark's  course  was 
taken. 

"  If  fatter  has  a  mind  to  be  a  heathea,  and  worse  than  a 
heathen,"  he  muttered,  one  morning  as  he  watched  the  ensign 
on  his  way  to  the  woods,  "  why,  well  and  good ;  but  mother 
is  a  Christian,  I  take  it.  She  ought  to  know  better.  I  will 


186          LEA  Via  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

give  her  her  choice ;  either  die  or  I  go  over  to-day  and  seo 
how  Molly  and  the  boys  are." 

He  watched  his  mother  with  a  compressed  lip  as  she  went 
about  her  household  labor ;  then,  when  she  had  smoothed 
her  hair  and  drawn  her  wheel  to  her  accustomed  corner,  he 
began  : 

"  Mother,  Lydia  and  Tim  Linsley,  Thankful  Harrison,  Sam 
and  David  Butler,  Abby  Barker,  and  ever  so  many  more  chil- 
dren, have  died.  Do  you  think  that  Joe  and  Benje  and  Molly 
will  all  die,  too  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Mark.  Sarah  Whedon  says  that  Doctor 
Foot  gives  no  hope  for  the  little  boys.  Poor  Hannah  Chin- 
nin  !  it  will  be  a  sad  blow  to  her  to  lose  them." 

"  Mother,  do  you  remember  what  nice  custards  and  jellies 
Mrs.  Chinnin  used  to  bring  me,  when  I  had  the  measles ; 
and  how  she  watched  by  me  and  nursed  me  when  you  was  too 
much  worn  out  to  hold  up  your  head  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mark,  I  shall  never  forget  her  kindness  !  "  and  the 
tears  sprang  to  the  mother's  eyes. 

"  Well,  then,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  rising  and  giving  the 
forestick  a  kick,  as  if  to  settle  his  decision,  "  I  think  it  is  a 
burning  shame  that  we  should  let  them  all  die,  and  never  go 
near  them.  I,  for  one,  am  going  over  there  to-day.  I  am 
but  a  boy,  I  know,  and  can  do  nothing  to  help  them,  but  the 
children  will  know  that  I  have  not  forgotten  them.  As  to  the 
fever,  if  I  catch  it,  I  must.  One  had  as  good  die  with  the 
fever,  as  live  in  a  quarrel  all  his  days." 

Mark  had  not  miscalculate"d  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  his 
mother.  She  knew  something  of  his  determined  spirit,  and 
exclaimed,  hurriedly : 

"  No,  no,  Mark  !  For  you  to  go  there  would  be  tempting 
Providence  outright;  If  you  should  catch  the  fever,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself.  I  will  go.  I  witt"  she  continued,  see- 
ing him  begin  to  button  up  his  jacket.  "  I  have  wanted  to  go 
for  a  long  time,  for  these  quarrels,  as  you  say,  are  dreadful 


THE  STRIFE.  187 

Only  promise  me  that  you  will  not  attempt  to  see  them  your- 
self, and  I  will  go  this  minute." 

"  I  promise  for  to-day,"  replied  Mark. 

There  was  no  manifestation  of  surprise  when  Esther  Ross 
entered  that  house  of  affliction  —  nothing  that  marked  a  mem- 
ory of  the  bitter  estrangement  between  them ;  but  a  warm 
pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  grateful  look  from  the  over-wearied 
mother,  as,  unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  last  fearful  struggle 
between  life  and  death,  she  relinquished  her  child  into  the 
hands  of  her  old  friend,  and  buried  her  face  on  her  husband's 
shoulder.  As  in  birth,  so  in  death,  those  children  were  not 
divided.  Death  gathered  them  both  in  the  space  of  a  few 
hours,  and  kind  Esther  Ross  (ah,  how  she  inwardly  blessed 
the  wilfulness  of  her  boy,  that  had  driven  her  forth!)  smoothed 
their  fair  locks  with  a  gentle  hand,  and  prepared  their  little 
forms  for  the  grave.  Then  she  sought  the  room  of  Molly, 
where  her  presence  and  thoughtful  care  were  like  dew  to  the 
heart  of  the  fear-stricken  girl. 

When  she  returned  home  that  night,  and  related  with  a 
mother's  eloquence  the  sore  affliction  of  their  neighbors,  Mark 
wept  outright,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ensign  glistened  as  he 
said: 

"  I  am  glad  you  went,  Esther  !  "  Then,  laying  his  hand 
upon  Mark's  head,  he  added,  "  Remember,  my  boy,  that 
little  Joe  and  Benje  are  free  from  anger,  and  sin,  and  sor- 
row, now." 

Esther  Ross  knew  that  her  husband  passed  an  anxious  and 
restless  night,  but  she  knew,  also,  that  he  was  one  of  those 
who  are  best  left  to  the  workings  of  their  own  convictions ; 
therefore,  she  did  not  ask  him,  in  so  many  words,  to  attend 
the  funeral,  and  bury  all  anger  in  that  double  grave.  Mark, 
to  her  surprise,  did  not  ask  to  go,  and,  with  a  sad  and  some- 
what anxious  heart,  she  went  over  at  an  early  hour  to  give 
such  assistance  as  might  be  needed. 

The  grave-yard  and  the  road  which  led  to  it  were  in  full 


188  LEAVES   FROM   THE   TREK   IGDEA8TL. 

view  from  the  windows  of  Ensign  Ross'  house.  The  ensign 
had  loitered  about  the  wood-pile  and  yard  all  the  morning,  ii» 
a  restless,  undecided  manner.  When  the  people  began  to 
gather  to  the  house  of  mourning,  he  went  into  his  house,  and 
paced  the  floor  with  the  same  restless  step,  occasionally  join- 
ing Mark,  who  had  stationed  himself  at  the  window. 

Mark  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands  when  he  saw  the  old 
pastor  issue  forth  from  the  house,  followed  by  four  boys  not 
much  larger  than  himself,  bearing  the  double  coffin ;  for  he 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  the  fair-haired  boys  lay  beneath 
that  heavy  black  pall. 

But  his  father  continued  to  watch  the  procession  with  a 
troubled  expression  of  face.  Onward  it  crept  with  that  slow 
and  solemn  pace,  and  there  came  a  convulsive  twitching  about 
his  mouth,  as  it  filed  into  the  grave-yard,  and  past  a  little, 
short  mound,  headed  by  a  slab  of  white  marble,  a  few  yards 
to  the  right  of  the  gate ;  for  he  thought  of  the  sad  November 
day  when  he  and  his  wife  had  stood  by  that  open  grave,  and 
well  did  he  remember  whose  hand  had  gently  lowered  the 
head  of  his  little  flaxen-haired  Mabel  to  her  last  home  ;  and 
who,  in  all  times  of  trial  and  affliction,  had  stood  by  his  side 
like  a  brother.  He  seized  his  hat,  and,  hurrying  onward,  soon 
reached  the  spot,  and  gently  made  his  way  through  the  crowd 
to  the  side  of  the  grave. 

When  the  solemn  prayer  of  the  old  minister  was  ended, 
with  a  gesture  of  entreaty  he  took  a  shovel  from  the  hand  of 
a  young  man,  and  slowly  and  reverently  sprinkled  the  first 
grains  of  dust  on  the  coffin  below.  As  he  returned  the  shovel 
to  the  hand  of  the  young  man,  his  eye  for  one  second  met  that 
of  the  bereaved  father,  and  he  felt  that  his  motive  was  under- 
stood. His  hand  laid  the  last  clod  upon  that  grave ;  his  foot 
was  the  last  to  turn  away  and  join  Esther,  who  still  lingered 
by  the  white  tombstone  of  their  own  child. 

They  pursued  their  way  home  in  silence,  and,  when  they 
reached  that  house  of  sorrow,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they  both 


THE    STRIFE.  189 

turned  and  entered.  As  they  entered  the  vacant  sitting- 
room,  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  leftenant  raised  in  broken 
expostulations  in  an  adjoining  room. 

"  No,  no,  my  boy ;  this  must  not  be.  We  have  suffered 
sorely ;  and  if  you,  too,  should  take  the  fever  and  die  "  — 

The  leftenant  could  not  proceed ;  and,  as  they  drew  near 
the  open  door,  they  saw  their  own  son,  Mark,  standing  by  the 
bedside  of  MoHy,  holding  her  fevered  hand  closely  in  tis,  as 
he  replied,  with  a  quivering  lip  : 

"  They  have  buried  up  little  Joe  and  Benje,  and  would  not 
let  me  see  them,  but  I  will  see  Molly ;  I  've  seen  her  to-day, 
and  I  '11  see  her  to-morrow.  I  don't  care  for  fever ;  my 
father  looks  cross,  and  mother  sad,  and  nothing  is  as  it  used 
to  be.  This  quarrel  has  made  us  all  miserable  enough." 

"  Ithiel !  Ithiel !  the  boy  is  right !  "  exclaimed  Ensign 
Ross,  stepping  through  the  door-way  and  offering  his  hand 
to  his  startled  neighbor.  "  I  have  been  harsh,  unkind,  un- 
christian —  forgive  me !  " 

The  stricken  father  stared  for  a  second  in  astonishment, 
then,  seizing  the  proffered  hand,  murmured,  as  he  bowed  his 
head  over  it  to  conceal  his  tears : 

."  And  I,  too,  Jonathan  —  I,  too,  am  guilty.  But  I 
have  left  it  all  there,"  he  added,  with  a  significant  gesture 
towards  the  grave-yard.  "  Let  it  be  forgotten." 

And  so  it  was.  After  a  long  and-weary  illness,  Molly 
recovered ;  and  the  lives  of  the  families  again  flowed  on  in 
the  same  current  until,  as  white-headed  old  men,  Leftenant 
Chirmin  and  Ensign  Ross  were  laid  with  their  fathers. 

But,  years  before  they  died,  the  white  house  upon  the  hill, 
which  they  had  seen  in  their  dreams,  had  become  a  reality, 
and  two  little  boys  had  been  born  there,  who,  at  the  special 
request  of  the  ensign,  were  christened  Joseph  and  Benjamin. 

The  storm  of  contention  gradually  subsided,  and  the  old 
landmarks  became  visible.  The  land  has  now  had  rest  for 
many  years,  and  the  traces  of  the  old  battle  are  scarcely  dis- 


190  LEAVES   FROM   THE  TREE   IQDKASYL. 

cernible  to  any  save  such  curious  beings  as  ourselves.  The 
white  school-house,  minus  the  belfry,  still  stands;  but  the 
"  Revenge,"  where  we  conned  our  earliest  lessons,  has  long 
since  gone  to  destruction. 


II. 

OUR    SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 


NOT  long  since,  while  on  a  visit  to  some  kind  friends  of 
mine,  I  found  myself  in  the  company  of  several  ladies,  who 
were  discussing  with  much  interest  the  subject  of  education, 
and  the  respective  merits  of  several  fashionable  seminaries  in 
that  vicinity.  Not  feeling  particularly  interested  in  the  sub- 
ject, I  joined  my  friend  E ,  in  looking  over  Darley's 

graphic  illustrations  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  soon  became  so 
deeply  absorbed  that  I  heard  only  the  murmur  of  their  voices, 
occasionally  broken  by  a  word  or  two  uttered  in  a  shriller 
key,  seeming  like  the  echo  of  the  voice  of  Rip's  good  vrowe. 

I  was  suddenly  recalled  from  this  enchanted  valley,  by  the 
voice  of  the  fashionable  Mrs.  W ,  exclaiming  : 

"  Ah,  yes  !  we  will  ask  Miss  R ."  Then  laying  her 

jewelled  hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  if  not  quite  sure  that  I  was 
free  from  that  drowsy  atmosphere,  she  continued  : 

"  You  have  hardly  heard  our  argument,  my  dear,  but  we 
were  speaking  of  the  superior  advantages  which  seminaries  in 
the  city  possess  over  those  in  the  country  in  all  that  relates 
to  the  true  finish  of  a  young  lady's  education.  May  we  ask 
at  what  seminary  you  were  educated  ?  " 

There  was  something  so  bizarre,  so  ludicrous,  between  the 
lady's  expectant  tone  and  the  picture  her  words  called  up  to 
my  mind,  that  I  could  hardly  repress  a  smile  as  the  unvar- 
nished truth  rose  to  my  lips ;  but  one  glance  at  her  haughty 
face  brought  with  it  the  memory  of  her  wealth,  her  morbid 


192         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

exclusiveness,  her  horror  of  anything  "native  to  the  soil," 
and,  let  me  confess  the  truth,  reader,  with  a  feeling  strongly 
akin  to  cowardice,  I  evaded  a  direct  reply  by  saying,  "  I  was 
educated  at  home." 

"  Ah !  you  had  a  governess,  then.  Your  parents  were  so 
wise  %s  to  follow  the  good  old  English  custom.  I  wish  it 
were  more  fashionable  here,  for  it  is  much  to  be  preferred  to 
our  mixed  hoarding-schools.  I  have  sometimes  thought  I 
would  employ  a  governess  for  Celestia ;  but  it  is  so  difficult 
to  find  one  possessing  all  the  requisite  qualifications.  Your 
friends  must  have  been  fortunate." 

My  folly  had  brought  its  reward.  I  colored,  grew  confused, 
embarrassed,  and  was  trying  to  stammer  forth  something, 

when  I  caught  the  clear  gray  eyes  of  my  friend  E fixed 

earnestly  upon  me,  while  a  most  provokingly  quizzical  smile 
gathered  around  his  mouth.  All  at  once  my  confusion  van- 
ished, and,  raising  my  eyes  to  the  lady's  face,  I  said,  quietly : 

"  I  fear  I  have  led  you  into  a  mistake,  Mrs.  W .  I 

should  have  said,  that  I  was  educated  chiefly  at  the  district 
school  in  my  native  village." 

There  was  a  slight,  almost  imperceptible  raising  of  the 
lady's  shoulders,  and  her  bland  air  of  respectful  attention 
vanished  at  once,  as  she  replied,  with  a  slight  drawl : 

"  Ah  —  ahem  !  I  think  I  have  heard  Squire  W say 

that  there  have  been  some  improvements  in  the  common 
schools  within  a  few  years ; "  and,  turning  carelessly  away, 
she  began  to  discuss  with  her  neighbor  the  last  new  design 
for  crotchet  that  had  appeared  in  the  Lady's  Book.  • 

"  Coolly  done,  that,"  whispered  E .  "  You  must  re- 
member that  a  great  gulf  suddenly  yawns  between  people, 
sometimes,  even  in  this  world.  For  a  moment,  I  feared  you 
would  fail  to  see  that  little  red  school-house,  of  which  you  so 
often  speak,  in  the  golden  atmosphere  that  surrounds  Mrs. 
"W >-." 

As  other  people  besides  Mrs.  W sometimes  ask  after 


OUR   SCHOOL-MISTRESS.  198 

my  Alma  Mater,  I  have  determined  to  describe  it ;  partly 
because  I  think  "  our  school "  was  peculiar  even  in  those  days, 
and  partly  because  I  wish  to  daguerre  a  few  traits  of  one 
who  has  long  been  among  the  angels. 

Should  you  ever  chance  to  visit  our  village,  reader,  you 
will  find  the  main  road  from  the  west,  for  the  space  of  two 
miles  or  so,  clinging  close  to  the  foot  of  a  rugged  chain  of 
hills,  known  as  the  Tetoket  range.  On  the  l|ft,  you  will 
have  their  precipitous  front,  in  some  places  barren  and  bleak, 
and  crowned  by  huge  old  cliffs : 

"  Here,  dark  with  the  thick  moss  of  centuries, 
And  there  of  chalky  whiteness,  where  the  thunderbolt 
Has  splintered  them  ;  " 

and  in  others  draped  to  the  very  summit  with  a  mass  of  tangled 
green,  through  which  rise  the  heads  of  the  tall  cedars,  like 
watch/ul  sentinels.  Very,  very  beautiful  is  the  old  mountain 
in  the  genial  spring-time,  when  he  unfurls  his  leafy  banners 
and  displays  every  shade  of  green,  from  the  deep  black  hue 
of  the  cedar,  to  the  pale,  faint  tinge  of  the  buttonwood  and  the 
aspen,  with  the  white  blossoms  of  the  dog-wood  peeping  out 
from  the  midst  like  stars.  And  still  beautiful  is  he  when 
the  frosts  of  autumn  have  fallen  upon  him,  and  all  the  shows 
of  summer  have  departed;  when  the  everlasting  cedars, 
clothed  to  the  very  topmost  branch  in  robes  of  flame-colored 
livery,  stand,  like  old  martyrs,  lifting  their  upstretched  arms 
to  heaven,  and  hinting,  not  dimly,  that  God  still  speaketh 
from  the  midst  of  the  burning  bush,  would  we  but  listen. 

On  the  right,  the  open  country  sweeps  southward  toward 
Long  Island  Sound,  but  so  broken  and  undulating  that  you 
must  ascend  the  mountain,  would  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
blue  water.  As  you  approach  the  village,  a  valley  opens,  in 
the  midst  of  which  sleep  two  small  but  beautiful  sheets  of 
water,  separated  only  by  a  narrow,  ribbon-like  bit  of  green 
meadow.  "Winding  around  these,  you  may  trade  green  lanee, 
17 


194         LEAVES  FKOM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

crossed  here  and  there  by  more  public  roads,  and  catch 
glimpses- of  the  sharp  roofs  and  heavy  stone  chimneys  of  old 
farm-houses,  rising  from  amidst  clusters  of  green  trees. 

Not  a  great  many  rods  beyond  this  point  the  mountain 
suddenly  makes  a  turn  to  the  north-west,  and,  like  the  face  of 
a  stern  fellow-traveller  relaxing  into  a  smile  at  parting, 
smooths  its  rugged  features,  and,  with  a  gentle,  loving  arm, 
embraces  o«r  village  and  the  valley  north  o£  it,  known  among 
the  early  settlers  as  the  "  pleasant  land  of  Goshen."  Here, 
for  the  first  time,  you  catch  a  view  of  the  village,  which  looks 
like  a  bird's  nest  hidden  between  the  hills,  and,  just  where  the 
last  undulation  of  the  mountain  slopes  down  to  meet  the  main 
road,  stood  the  red  school-house.  I  have  spoken  of  its  origin, 
and  described  its  appearance  in  a  previous  sketch ;  but  I  said 
nothing  of  the  old  apple-tree  whose  boughs  overhung  its  roof, 
— that  apple-tree,  which  must,  even  as  a  germ,  have  had  a  kind 
of  fore-feeling  of  its  destiny,  or  surely  its  trunk  would  never 
have  been  garnished  with  such  excellent  knots  for  footholds, 
its  limbs  would  never  have  twisted  themselves  into  such  ad- 
mirable seats  for  children,  and  its  blossoms  would  never  have 
been  the  earliest  and  most  fragrant  of  the  season.  It  was 
truly  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  to  us  urchins ; 
and  many  pleasant  half-hours  did  we  sit  perched  up  amid  its 
branches,  watching  the  swallows  that  built  their  nests  in  the 
belfry  of  the  Episcopal  church  across  the  way,  or  mocking  the 
bob-o'-linkums  in  the  meadows  by  the  river. 

Moreover,  from  the  foot  of  the  trunk  sprang  divers  singu- 
larly smooth,  straight  shoots,  which  sometimes  found  their 
way  into  a  certain  corner  of  the  school-room,  as  incentives  to 
learning  by  the  inverse  method. 

Then,  that  length  of  fence  under  the  apple-tree !  Never 
were  rails  so  smooth  or  so  capitally  arranged  for  climbing. 
Blessings  on  the  hand  that  laid  them !  Why,  our  sleds  made 
nothing  of  it,  but  came  darting  like  arrows  from  the  hill 
above,  and  paused  not  until  we  landed  on  the  opposite  side  of 


OUR   SCHOOL-MISTRESS.  19a 

the  street.  But  I  must  not  linger  here ;  I  can  almost  fancy 
that  I  hear  again  the  sound  of  the  ferule  on  the  window- 
casement,  the  invariable  signal  which  recalled  us  from  our 
sports. 

To  my  young  readers  I  would  say,  do  not  fancy  that  our 
school-room  was  anything  like  yours,  with  your  convenient 
desks,  your  shaded  windows,  your  globes,  cabinets,  and  outline 
maps.  Ours  was  a  large,  square  room,  lighted  bysix  or  eight 
windows,  through  which,  during  the  long  summer  hours,  came 
a  flood  of  light  and  heat  so  intense  as  to  dazzle  the  eyes  and 
bewilder  the  brain  of  the  strongest.  Around  three  sides  of 
the  room  ran  rude  desks,  to  which  were  attached  rough,  nar- 
row planks  for  benches,  and  inside  of  these  was  a  row  of  sim- 
ilar benches  for  the  smaller  scholars.  These  were  without 
any  support  for  the  back,  and  all  of  them  so  high  that  not 
more  than  one  pair  of  feet  out  of  a  dozen  could  by  any  means 
contrive  to  touch  the  floor.  The  last  side,  with  the  exception 
of  the  space  taken  up  for  the  door,  was  occupied  by  the  great 
fireplace,  which  yawned  from  the  door-post  to  the  opposite 
wall.  In  these  utilitarian  days,  when 

"  Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiful  fire  is," 

such  fires  as  we  used  to  have  are  a  rarity.  No  wonder  that 
the  great  wooden  beam  which  served  for  a  mantel-piece  took 
fire  almost  every  day,  even  though  the  inventor  of  friction- 
matches,  on  whose  unfortunate  head  the  old  people  of  our 
village  lay  the  blame  of  all  the  fires  which  have  desolated 
city  and  country  for  several  years,  was  not  born. 

Ah !  those  great,  blazing,  crackling  fires  will  never  be  for- 
gotten. The  heart  of  the  sailor  turns  back  to  them,  as  he 
paces  the  deck  through  the  weary  night-watches,  with  the 
rain  and  sleet  driving  in  his  face,  while  the  biting  north  wind 
covers  his  long  locks  and  shaggy  pea-jacket  with  glittering 
icicles  ;  and  brightly  do  they  gleam  and  glow  in  the  restless 
dreams  of  more  than  one  famished,  benumbed  gold-seeker,  as 


196  vLEAVES   FROM    THE   TREE    IQDRA3TI.. 


be  sinks  down  to  his  last  sleep  amid  the  snows  of  the  Rocky 
'Mountains. 

Of  maps,  we  had  none.  I  doubt  whether  such  an  article 
ever  saw  the  inside  of  the  red  school-house,  and  the  Japanese 
might  have  been  next  door  neighbors  to  us,  for  aught  we  knew 
or  cared.  The  labors  of  Lindley  Murray,  Home  Tooke,  Web- 
ster, Ashe,  Greenleaf,  and  Brown,  were  considered  as  entirely 
supererogatory  by  both  teachers  and  parents.  Indeed,  so 
strong  was  this  prejudice  against  grammar,  that,  when  it  was 
introduced  into  our  schools,  some  years  later,  the  teachers  sel- 
dom made  any  application  of  its  rules.  We  were  taught  to 
repeat  it  by  rote,  and  in  this  way  I  studied  grammar  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  could  repeat  the  whole,  from  Etymology  to 
Syntax,  without  .being  able  to  construe  correctly  a  single 
sentence.  In  the  same  manner  we  studied  Orthography 
and  Prosody,  as  laid  down  in  the  early  editions  of  Web- 
ster's spelling-book.  I  doubt  whether  any  children  were 
ever  more  familiar  with  that  same  spelling-book  than  were 
we  ;  not  only  with  the  orthography  of  our  lessons,  but  the 
number  of  words  in  a  column,  the  number  of  leaves  in  the 
book,  the  leading  word  on  each  page,  every  typographical 
error  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  hours  we  spent  in  studying  the 
beauties  of  those  specimens  of  art  that  illustrated  the  fables, 
counting  tha  apples  on  the  tree  in  the  fable  of  "  Th,e  Old  Man 
and  Rude  Boy,"  or  the  exact  number  of  flies  composing  the 
swarm  that  tormented  the  poor  "  Fox  in  the  Bramble."  In 
reading,  spelling,  and  arithmetic,  we  were,  to  a  certain  degree, 
more  carefully  drilled,  and  a  clear,  well-written  copy-book 
was  the  teacher's  and  pupil's  pride  on  the  day  of  examination. 

Thus,  with  the  occasional  diversion  of  "  choosing  sides  " 
in  spelling,  and  a  grand  pitched  battle  with  snow-balls  between 
our  boys  and  their  rivals  of  the  white  school-house,  we  passed 
the  winters.  In  the  summers,  when  the  large  boys  were  busy  in 
the  fields,  writing  and  arithmetic  were  both  laid  aside,  and  in 
their  place  we  had  patchwork  with  all  ita  endless  variations. 


OUR    SCIIOOL-MISTRESS.  -        197 

marking,  embroidery,  stitching,  and  plain-sewing.  For  the 
qualifications  of  our  teacher  in  the  last,  I  can  well  vouch,  for 
I  have  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  her  compelling  me  to  rip 
the  wristband  three  times  from  the  first  shirt-sleeve  I  ever 
made,  because,  forsooth,  I  did  not  catch  every  gather. 

It  is  of  this  teacher,  or  mistress, — for  the  term  was  peculiarly 
appropriate  in  those  days,  —  I  wish  to  speak.  I  have  mused 
much  upon  her  character,  and  she  ever  seems  to  have  been  of 
those  unto  whom  it  is  appointed  to  be  "  made  perfect  through 
suffering."  Her  whole  life  was  a  combat  —  a  struggle  with 
physical  weakness  and  pain.  Hour  after  hour  have  I  seen 
her  walk  the  school-room  with  rapid,  uneven  steps,  her  long, 
thin  fingers  clenched  together,  her  pale  lips  parted,  while  the 
great  drops  of  perspiration  started  on  her  brow,  yet  not  a 
word  of  murmur  ever  escaped  her ;  and,  when  the  paroxysm 
was  past,  her  voice  was  low  and  gentle  as  the  south  wind 
after  a  storm.  Her  tall,  spare  figure,  and  thin,  pale  face, 
bore  unmistakable  traces  of  this  warfare;  but  there  was  a 
light  in  her  great,  dark  eyes — clear,  serene  and  luminous,  as 
that  of  the  fixed  stars — which  spake  of  conquest,  and  a  hope 
centred  in  Him  "  in  whom  there  is  no  variableness  nor  shadow 
of  turning." 

Husbandless  and  childless,  possessing  a  sufficiency  of  this 
world's  goods,  it  was  a  matter  of  surprise  to  many  that  she 
did  not  seek  that  life  of  ease  which  her  delicate  health  seemed 
to  require.  But  she  feared  the  ennui  and  selfishness  of  a  life 
of  idleness ;  she  felt  intuitively  that 

"  Something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish  ; 
Must  love  and  joy  and  sorrow  learn  ;" 

that  no  woman  can  be  happy  without  some  occupation,  some 
interest  in  life ;  therefore  she  took  charge  of  the  village  school 
for  many  a  pleasant  summer. 

The  children  became  her  children ;  in  their  progress,  pleas- 
ures, troubles  and  difficulties,  she  rejoiced  or  sorrowed ;  and 
17* 


198          LKAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

if  she  could  not  teach  the  "  higher  branches,"  no  one  better 
possessed  the  secret  of  inculcating  in  the  minds  of  the  chil- 
dren habits  of  strict  honesty,  reverence  toward  God  and  our 
elders,  kindness  and  forbearance  toward  each  other,  and 
courtesy  toward  all  men. 

She  was  fond  of  poetry,  especially  devotional  poetry,  and 
rhymed  herself  with  great  facility.  Her  approbation  of  our 
conduct  was  generally  expressed  in  rhyme,  on  small,  square 
pieces  of  paper,  ornamented  with  various  devices  in  red  and 
green  ink.  But  the  highest  proof  of  her  approval,  the  one  I 
prized  most,  was  permission  to  take  a  small  book,  which  she 
kept  laid  away  choicely  in  her  desk,  containing  poems  for 
children,  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Jane  Taylor,  and  others,  and  to  go 
forth  an  hour  or  so,  with  a  companion  of  my  own  choosing, 
and  lie  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  thick-leaved  trees,  or  per- 
chance sit  perched  up  in  the  old  apple-tree,  while  we  com- 
mitted one  or  more  to  memory,  to  be  recited  on  our  return  to 
the  school-room. '  Another  method  of  manifesting  her  appro- 
bation was  to  send  us  forth  in  parties  of  three  and  four,  to 
commit  to  memory  the  inscriptions  on  the  stones  in  the  adja- 
cent grave-yard.  On  a  pleasant  summer  afternoon,  when 
the  sun  began  to  sink  behind  the  mountain,  and  the  shadows  to 
lengthen,  the  passing  traveller  might  have  seen  half  a  dozen 
little  girls,  wandering  cautiously  among  the  sunken  graves,  or 
seated  amid  the  tall  grass  at  the  foot  of  some  old  slab  of  red 
sandstone,  tracing  the  lugubrious  inscription  with  their  tiny 
fingers. 

A  friend,  to  whom  I  related  this  peculiar  trait  in  my  early 
education  the  other  day,  laughingly  remarked : 

"  And  to  these  youthful  '  Meditations  among  the  Tombs ' 
may  be  traced  your  present  literary  tastes,  I  suppose." 

Doubtless  they  were  not  without  an  influence  upon  us,  for  I 
remember  some  curious  thoughts  and  speculations  passed 
through  my  head  as  I  sat  there,  such  as  I  would  not  haye 


OUR   SCHOOL-MISTRESS.  199 

been  likely  to  have  spoken  of  to  any  one,  certainly  not  to  any 
older  than  myself. 

We  always  commenced  our  morning  exercises  by  repeating 
a  poem  called  "  Daily  Duty,"  and  closed  at  noon  with  another 
entitled  "  Hosanna."  I  do  not  remember  much  of  either ; 
but  I  do  remember  how  hungry  I  used  to  be  before  we  got 
through  with  the  last,  which  was  somewhat  lengthy,  and  how 
many  times  I  have  reached  behind  me  into  my  dinner-basket, 
and  extracted  a  piece  of  cake,  preferring —  0,  Phoebus  Apollo ! 
—  puritan  dough-nuts  to  poetry.  The  afternoon  exercises  were 
also  closed  with  an  appropriate  hymn,  and,  by  the  way,  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  these  stanzas  were  repeated  in 
as  many  keys  as  there  were  voices  in  the  school.  It  was  not 
often  that  death  entered  our  circle,  but  when  he  did  claim  one 
of  our  number,  or  a  child  from  any  of  the  other  districts, 
headed  by  our  mistress,  we  followed  in  due  procession  to  the 
grave,  where  we  ranged  ourselves  around  it,  after  the  coffin 
had  been  lowered  to  its  last  resting-place,  and  repeated  some 
lines  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  either  written  by  our  teacher 
or  selected  from  her  favorite  authors. 

In  looking  over  the  manuscripts  of  our  old  school-mistress, 
not  long  since,  I  came  across  the  following  lines,  which  will 
serve  to  illustrate  her  character,  as  well  as  the  occupations  in 
which  she  sought  to  overcome  her  life-long  foes,  suffering  and 
weakness.  They  were  addressed  to  a  sister,  after  a  "  dis- 
tressing illness,"  and  entitled 

EXERCISE   THE   BEST   PHYSICIAN. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  spinning  tow, 
And  I  desire  to  have  you  know 
How  very  well  and  strong  I  feel ; 
My  best  physician  is  my  wheel. 

"  If  you  should  see  me  at  my  wheel, 
Perhaps  you  'd  think  I  'd  never  reel  ; 
But  I  can  spin  ten  knots  a  day  — 
A  noble  task  for  me,  you  '11  say. 


200         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  It  strengthens  all  my  frame,  I  find, 
And  does  invigorate  my  mind, 
And  makes  my  spirit  cheerful,  too; 
All  the  result  of  spinning  tow. 

"  I  've  put  aside  my  easy  chair, 
No  longer  do  I  need  to  wear 
My  blanket  and  my  shawl,  and  sit 
As  if  I  had  an  ague-fit. 

"  Nor  do  I  sigh  and  cry  •  0,  dear  ! 
I  shall  be  ill  again,  I  fear  ! ' 
But  I  am  cheerful  now,  and  feel 
Quite  grateful  to  my  Doctor  Wheel." 

The  spot  where  the  red  school-house  stood  is  now  a  smooth 
green  bank,  the  old  apple-tree  is  gone,  and  the  old  rail-fence 
superseded  by  a  rough,  tumbling-down-looking  stone  wall. 
Time  and  Death  have  worked  their  will  upon  that  merry 
flock  of  children,  and  she,  who  for  so  many  pleasant  summers 
moved  in  our  midst  like  a  guiding  angel,  has  long  since 
"  passed  through  death  unto  life." 


III. 

A  SABBATH  OF  1776. 


LATE  in  the  fall  of  1847,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  spend 
several  delightful  hours  in  the  gallery  of  the  "  Art  Union  "  in 
New  York.  Among  the  many  exquisite  pictures  that  graced 
its  walls,  was  one  which  particularly  attracted  my  attention. 
Not  that  I  either  comprehended  or  was  much  influenced  by 
the  learned  and  technical  criticisms  of  the  connoisseurs  at  my 
elbow,  but  it  was  a  New  England  scene,  "  The  First  News  of 
the  Battle  of  Lexington,"  by  Ranney,  and  for  its  truth  and 
spirit  I  could  well  vouch. 

It  represented  a  New  England  landscape  in  the  capricious 
month  of  April,  with  all  the  shows  of  awakening  agricultural 
life  and  industry.  A  village  smithy  in  the  foreground,  which 
I  could  have  almost  identified,  under  the  projecting  roof  of 
which  stood  the  brawny-armed  smith  himself,  with  compressed 
lips  and  knitted  brows,  fastening  a  shoe  to  the  reeking  horse 
of  a  courier  (how  much  more  significant  the  old  Saxon  word, 
bode),  who,  still  in  the  saddle,  hurriedly  told  his  tale  of  "fate 
and  fear "  to  the  excited  listeners  that  had  already  reached 
the  spot.  All  along  the  road  were  seen  hurrying  .stalwart 
forms,  with  the  implements  of  toil  still  in  their  hands ;  in  the 
fields,  the  plough  and  oxen  were  left  midway  in  the  furrow, 
while  their  master,  without  bridle  or  saddle,  sprang  upon  the 
stout  farm-horse,  and,  with  his  strong  hand  twisted  in  his  shaggy 
mane,  the  gears  still  trailing  at  his  heels,  and  nose  high  in 
the  air,  guided  him,  at  an  undreamed-of  pace,  across  the  fields 
and  over  fences,  toward  the  scene  of  excitement. 


202         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQBRASYL. 

I  knew  many  in  my  native  village  that  might  have  stood  as 
the  originals  of  those  men ;  ay,  and  not  a  few  horses  that 
might,  upon  occasion,  have  taken  that  very  look  and  gait. 
But  more  than  this,  as  I  gazed  upon  that  picture,  the  shadowy 
forms  of  the  white-haired  fathers  of  our  village  seemed  to 
take  the  place  of  the  gayly-dressed  people  at  my  side,  and 
stand  leaning,  as  was  their  wont,  over  their  stout  oaken  sticks, 
as  they  told  over  again  their  "  tales  of  the  times  of  old."  One 
of  these,  which  that  picture  vividly  recalled,  and  which  would 
not  be  an  unmeet  subject  for  the  artist's  pencil,  I  shall  attempt 
to  relate. 

One  Sabbath  morning,  during  the  gloomy  summer  of  1776, 
when  the  hopes  of  the  patriots  seemed  likely  to  go  down  in 
darkness  and  blood,  and  even  the  God-sustained  heart  of 
Washington  grew  troubled,  and  almost  sank  within  him,  the 
people  of  our  village  came  up  to  the  house  of  God  with  sad 
countenances  and  heavy  hearts.  News  travelled  slowly  then, 
and  they  were  chiefly  indebted  to  such  wounded  soldiers  as 
passed  through  the  village,  on  their  way  to  their  homes,  for 
their  information  of  the  movements  of  the  army.  They  knew 
that  Washington  still  held  New  York,  and  the  last  poor 
wounded  fellow  that  had  reached  home  had  told  a  fearful 
tale  of  the  state  of  our  own  diminished  army,  and  the  hordes 
of  troops,  under  the  Howes,  that  were  gathering  around  it  like 
locusts. 

It  was  a  beautiful  mid-summer  morning.  A  light  thunder- 
shower,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  preceding  night,  had  laid 
the  dust  and  given  coolness  to  the  air.  The  rain-drops  still 
hung  trembling  from  leaf  and  spray,  and  came  dropping  down 
in  showers,  as  the  footsteps  of  pedestrians  or  the  heavy  tramp 
of  horse?,  bearing,  in  most  instances,  the  double  burden  of  man 
and  matron,  with  perchance  a  rosy  child  or  two,  startled  from 
their  quivering  perches  the  silver-throated  birds. 

The  grain  was  already  harvested,  but  many  fields  of  grass 
were  still  standing,  brown  and  sunburnt;  and  it  was  very 


A  SABBATH  OF  1776.  203 

evident  that  some  of  the  crops  suffered  from  lack  of  proper 
cultivation,  for  many  of  the  most  expert  wielders  of  the  hoe 
and  scythe  had  already  exchanged  them  for  the  musket  and 
.sword.  Still,  here  and  there  a  piece  of  Indian  corn  stood  up 
thriftily,  through  the  broad  leaves  of  which  the  faint  west  wind 
rustled  with  a  low,  murmurous  sound,  like  the  dropping  of  the 
summer  rain.  In  the  south-west,  just  above  the  top  of  Teto- 
ket,  appeared  the  white  caps  of  two  or  three  of  those  singular 
clouds,  known  among  the  country  people  as  "  thunderheads." 
But  the  people,  as  they  pursued  their  way  along  the  green 
lanes  and  over  the  forest-crowned  hills,  had  other  thoughts 
than  of  the  beauty  of  the  landscape.  Their  hearts  were  with 
their  brothers  and  friends ;  their  thoughts  turned  towards  Him 
who  is  both  able  to  build  up  and  cast  down,  before  whose 
altar  they  were  accustomed  to  cast  all  their  cares  and  trou- 
bles. 

As  with  slow  and  reverent  steps,  they  filed  into  the  meet- 
ing-house, and  took  their  seats  in  the  square  pews,  it  was 
easily  seen  that  the  greater  portion  of  the  male  part  of  the 
congregation  consisted  of  men  advanced  in  years,  and  boys  in 
their  teens.  The  morning  service  passed  as  usual,  and,  after 
a  short  intermission,  the  people  again  gathered  to  their  places, 
and  the  earnest  prayer  was  offered,  and  a  sermon,  suited  to 
the  exigencies  of  the  times  and  the  wants  of  the  audience,  was 
commenced.  Suddenly,  the  congregation  was  startled  by  the 
heavy  tramp  of  a  horse,  which  rapidly  approached  and  halted 
by  the  meeting-house  door.  In  a  moment  the  rider  bad 
thrown  himself  from  the  saddle,  and  stood  within  the  door. 
Handing  a  note  to  the  aged  deacon,  who  was  hurrying  down 
the  aisle  to  ask  the  cause  of  this  untoward  interruption,  with 
an  audibly  whispered  injunction  to  act  with  speed,  he  as 
hastily  mounted,  and  kept  on  his  way.  The  deacon  cast  one 
glance  at  the  superscription  of  the  paper,  then  marched  rever- 
ently up  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  the 
minister,  with  the  same  whispered  injunction.  Deliberately 


204 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDBASYL. 


the  old  man  finished  his  sermon  and  prayer,  then,  glancing  his 
eye  over  the  paper,  he  laid  its  contents  before  the  people.  It 
was  a  pressing  requisition  from  Washington  for  more  troops. 
He  was  daily  expecting  an*  attack  from  the  combined  forces 
of  the  enemy,  and  each  town  and  village  was  called  upon  to 
furnish  what  aid  it  could.  After  a  few  apt  and  eloquent  re- 
marks on  the  critical  situation  of  the  beloved  chieftain,  the 
worthy  man  continued,  "  Let  us  not  be  too  much  cast  down, 
my  brethren.  Our  cause  is  that  of  truth,  and  justice,  and 
righteousness;  and,  strong  in  these,  we  shall  yet  assuredly 
triumph.  This  business  is  urgent ;  and,  I  trust,  it  will  not  be 
deemed  derogatory  to  our  Christian  character,  nor  an  in- 
fringement upon  the  holy  Sabbath,  if  we  take  such  measures 
*  as  seem  most  pressing,  to-day.  Therefore,  all  who  are  wil- 
ling to  take  their  lives  in  their  hands,  and  stand  by  the  side 
of  the  commander-in-chief,  in  this  hour  of  trial,  will,  after  the 
close  of  these  services,  please  range  themselves  in  single  file 
upon  the  village  common." 

Then,  with  hands  clasped,  and  raised  towards  heaven,  he 
took  up  the  sublime  invocation  of  David  : 

"  Keep  not  thou  silence,  0  God !  hold  not  thy  peace,  and 
be  not  still ! 

"  For,  lo,  mine  enemies  make  a  tumult ;  they  that  hate  thee 
have  lifted  up  the  head. 

"  They  have  taken  crafty  counsel  against  thy  people,  and 
consulted  against  thy  hidden  ones.  They  have  said,  Come, 
let^us  cut  them  off  from  being  a  nation,  that  the  name  of 
Israel  may  be  no  more  in  remembrance. 

"  Let  them  be  confounded  and  troubled  forever ;  yea,  let 
them  be  put  to  shame  and  perish. 

"That  men  may  know  that  thou,  whose  name  alone  is 
Jehovah,  art  Most  High  over  all  the  earth !  " 

There  was  silence  for  the  space  of  some  moments,  and  then, 
to  the  strains  of  old  "  Mear,"  full,  clear,  and  distinct,  from 
all  parts  of  the  house,  rose  the  words  of  the  following  hymn  * 


_A.    SABBATH    OF   1778.  205 

"  Attend,  ye  armies,  to  the  fight, 

And  be  our  guardian,  God, 
In  vain  shall  numerous  foes  unite 
'Gainst  thine  uplifted  rod. 

"  Our  troops,  beneath  thy  guiding  hand, 

Shall  gain  a  great  renown  ; 
'Tis  God  that  makes  the  feeble  stand, 
And  treads  the  mighty  down." 

The  deep  silence  that  followed  the  benediction  was  broken 
by  the  low  muttering  of  distant  thunder,  for  the  white-capped 
thunder-clouds  of  the  morning  were  climbing  with  giant 
strides  up  the  western  sky.  Contrary  to  their  usual  custom, 
the  people  waited  in  silence  until  their  pastor  had  descended 
from  the  pulpit  and  passed  down  the  aisle ;  then  the  aged 
deacons  moved  forward,  followed  by  the  congregation  in  due 
order.  As  they  issued  from  the  wide  doorway,  the  whole 
male  portion,  as  if  moved  by  one  impulse,  took  their  way  to 
the  village  common.  Thoughtfully  and  silently,  to  the  roll- 
call  of  the  booming  thunder,  they  took  their  places,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  and  the  old  minister  saw  before  him  the  available 
strength  of  the  village,  each  man  capable  of  bearing  a  musket, 
from  the  gray-haired  veteran  to  the  boy  of  sixteen.  Grouped 
around  him  was  a  small  band,  to  whom  age  and  debility  had 
left  no  available  weapons  save  faith  and  prayer.  One  other 
group  must  not  be  forgotten  —  the  mothers,  wives,  sisters, 
daughters  of  those  men  upon  the  common,  who  remained  clus- 
tered around  the  meeting-house  door,  watching,  with  breath- 
less interest  the  movements  of  their  friends.  Love,  pride, 
anxiety,  hope,  and  faith,  lit  up  their  excited  features ;  but  I 
trow  there  was  little  cowardice  there. 

The  old  minister's  heart  glowed  within  him  at  the  sight  of 
the  resolute,  determined-looking  faces  before  him,  as  they  pro- 
ceeded to  a  choice  of  officers.  The  subordinate  offices  could 
readily  be  filled ;  but  who  should  lead  them  to  face  danger  and 
death  —  who  should  be  their  captain  ? 
18 


LEAVES  FROM  TUB  TREE  IQORASYL. 

Who  so  worthy  to  do  this  as  he  who  had  stood  by  them  in 
all  times  of  trial  and  sorrow  —  he  who  had  already  aided  them 
to  fight  the  good  fight  of  faith,  their  spiritual  teacher  and 
friend,  whose  moral  and  physical  courage  were  undoubted? 
and,  with  one  accord,  they  named  the  Rev.  Samuel  Eells. 

The  old  man  was  much  moved  by  this  unexpected  proof  of 
their  esteem  and  confidence.  It  was  the  highest  honor  in 
their  gift,  and  he  fully  appreciated  the  compliment  and  the 
responsibility.  He  had  too  much  of  the  old  puritan  spirit  in 
him  to  decline ;  his  heart  was  in  the  cause,  and,  in  a  few  apt 
but  broken  words,  he  signified  his  willingness  to  stand  by  them 
in  life  and  in  death.  Then,  beckoning  the  females  to  advance, 
he  bowed  his  head,  and,  like  a  true  Cromwellian,  called  down 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  them  and  their  cause. 

Thus  was  the  first  company  raised  in  our  village ;  such  wa.' 
the  spirit  with  which  our  fathers  responded  to  the  requisition 
of  Washington ;  and,  in  justification  of  the  wisdom  of  their 
choice,  let  us  add,  that, 

"  Like  a  soldier  of  the  Lord, 
With  his  Bible  and  his  sword," 

the  old  pastor   led  them  safely  through  manifold  dangers, 
until  they  joined  the  main  army  in  New  York. 


IV. 
THE    FIRST    GRAVE. 


"  In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality,  or  any  patent  from 
oblivion,  in  preservations  below  the  moon  :  there  is  no  antidote  against 
the  opium  of  time,  which  temporarily  considereth  all  things  ;  tho 
greater  part  mustobe  content  to  be  as  though  they  had  not  been  —  to  be 
found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man." —  Sir  Thomas 
Brown. 

NEARLY  a  century  and  a  quarter  ago  a  pleasant  group  were 
gathered  round  the  blazing  fire  in  the  comfortable  dwelling  of 
David  Allen,  one  of  the  settlers  of  our  village.  It  was  a 
keen,  clear,  winter  night ;  the  stars  shone  with  unwonted  bril- 
liancy, the  vast  shadows  of  the  unbroken  forest  stretched  mo- 
tionless across  the  pure  snow,  giving  a  still  more  solemn  and 
mystical  seeming  to  the  deep  silence  which  brooded  over  the 
scene,  undisturbed  save  by  the  sudden  cry  of  some  night-bird, 
or  wild  beast,  or  an  occasional  sharp  report  from  the  ice- 
bound ponds  in  the  vicinity,  as  their  glittering  mail  splintered 
beneath  the  quiet  moonbeams. 

But  within  there  were  warmth  and  comfort,  and  that  happi- 
ness which  ever  arises  from  the  conviction  of  a  day  well  spent. 
The  great  fireplace,  though  it  stretched  across  nearly  one  side 
of  the  room,  was  none  too  spacious  for  the  blazing  logs  that 
filled  it ;  none  too  wide  for  the  three  generations  gathered 
round  it. 

Alas  !  alas !  in  these  days,  when  the  free,  bold  spirit  of  that 
most  useful  of  household  servants  is  cramped  and  broken  by 


208  LEAVES   FROM    THE   TREE   IQDRASYL. 

confinement  in  uncouth  iron  prisons,  "when  we  catch  glimpses 
of  its  cheerful  face  only  through  the  narrow  bars  of  its  iron 
mask,  we  can  form  little  conception  of  its  own  intrinsic  beauty, 
or  how  kindly  it  was  wont  to  fling  its  warm  colorings  and  del- 
icate shades  over  the  meanest  household  group,  with  an  artis- 
tic grace  which  Titian  might  have  envied.  Like  the  free,  glad 
element  that  it  was,  it  danced  and  crackled  in  the  broad  fire- 
place of  Farmer  Allen  on  the  night  of  which  we  speak,  thrust- 
ing its  long,  spear-like  tongues  between  the  great  logs  that  fed 
it,  sending  forth  whole  showers  of  glowing  sparks  is  the  far- 
mer occasionally  thrust  back  a  protruding  stick  with  his  heavy 
boot,  chasing  the  dark  shadows  into  corners  and  little  recesses, 
lingering  with  a  softened,  delicate  gleam  on  the  pale  features 
and  silvery  locks  of  the  superannuated  grandame,  as  she  sat 
in  her  antique  arm-chair  in  the  "  warm  corner,"  nodding 
occasionally,  as  if  to  keep  company  with  the  youngest  littto 
one  at  her  side,  who  every  few  moments  rubbed  his  round 
eyes  with  his  chubby  fists,  stared  fixedly  at  the  fire,  and  then 
the  white  lids  fell  drowsily  down,  and  with  a  sudden  nod  his 
dimpled  chin  rested  on  his  breast.  Then,  how  merrily  the 
blaze  winked  back  at  him,  and  danced  lightly  over  the  curly 
heads  of  three  or  four  other  urchins,  to  the  further  end  of 
the  huge  "  settle,"  to  peer  into  the  pretty  face  of  Dorcas  Al- 
len, the  eldest  daughter  of  the  house,  as  she  not  unfrequently 
lifted  her  eyes  from  her  knitting  to  the  face  of  her  buoyant- 
hearted,  handsome  cousin,  who  sat  beside  her,  conversing  with 
her  father  and  mother,  or  with  a  heightened  color  answered 
his  questions  as  he  turned  to  her  for  information  with  respect 

to  their  young  companions ;   for  Isaac  B was  a  stranger 

as  it  were  in  his  native  village,  having  spent  most  of  the  last 
two  years  under  the  tuition  of  the  Rev.  Abraham  Pierson,  of 
Killingworth,  or  rather  Kennelworth,  as  the  old  colonial  rec- 
ords have  it,  first  rector  of  that  infant  college  which  since, 
under  the  name  of  "  Old  Yale,"  has,  banyan-like,  spread  its 
shoots  over  thirty  different  states. 


THE   FIRST   GRAVE.  209 

Isaac  had  much  to  tell  of  his  life  at  Mr.  Pierson's,  of  his 
studies  and  his  classmates ;  and  his  simple  relations  lacked 
not  their  full  quota  of  local  news,  —  marriages,  births,  deaths, 
clearings,  raisings,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  "  meeting-house," 
the  first  "  meeting-house  "  which  had  been  erected  during 
Isaac's  absence,  and  which  was  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
pride  and  interest  to  the  villagers. 

"  Well,  Isaac,"  said  goodman  Allen,  taking  a  final  squint 
at  the  bow-pin  he  had  been  whittling,  and  carefully  brushing 
the  shavings  from  his  homespun  trousers,  "  I  suppose  chop- 
ping comes  rather  hard  to  you,  after  idlin'  so  many  months 
over  your  books  in  old  Mr.  Pierson's  study." 

"  Idling !  I  only  wish  you  had  to  study  as  hard  for 
one  week,  uncle.  But  I  can  manage  to  keep  up  with  Sam 
yet,  and  that  is  a  little  more  than  any  one  else  can  say  in  these 
parts,  I  fancy,"  replied  the  young  man,  or  rather  boy,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Ha'n't  quite  forgot  your  old  knack  at  bragging,  Isaac," 
said  the  uncle,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  To  listen  to  you  and 
Sam,  one  would  think  you  would  turn  the  world  over." 

"  May-be  I  shall,  some  day,"  he  replied,  gayly.  "  I  shall, 
at  least,  try  hard  to  do  it ;  for  the  top  round  of  the  ladder 
must  be  mine,  uncle,  or  none ;  and  you  see  I  have  a  long  way 
to  climb." 

"  Isaac,  Isaac,  will  you  never  be  content  with  your  lot  ?  " 
said  the  quiet  Aunt  Esther. 

"  No,  aunt,  not  as  long  as  I  feel  that  there  is  a  better  and 
a  nobler  one  within  my  reach." 

"  Better !  "  exclaimed  goodman  Allen,  in  surprise.  "  Now 
hear  that !  Why,  one  would  think  you  were  a  born  pauper. 
Where  in  the  whole  township  are  there  two  boys  better  off 
than  Sam  and  you,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  You  surely  need  n't 
grumble  because  Sam  had  the  main  portion  of  your  father's 
land.  It  would  go  to  him,  of  course,  as  the  eldest.  Your 
portion  will  eddicate  you,  and  give  you  a  fair  start  in  the 
18* 


210         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

world,  to  say  nothing  of  your  mother's  jointure,  which  will 
be  yours  at  her  death.  Never  talk  in  that  way,  boy;  it  is 
downright  tempting  Providence." 

"  Uncle  David,  Aunt  Esther  !  "  said  the  boy,  indignantly, 
"  you  don't  understand  me !  I  don't  care  for  money.  Indeed^ 
I  despise  it,  hate  it,  when  I  see  what  slaves  it  makes  of  men ; 
how  they  plod  on,  year  after  year,  blind  and  deaf  to  every- 
thing but  the  clinking  of  the  dollars  as  they  scrape  them 
into  their  bags.  Better  die  at  once  than  to  live  a  life  like 
that!" 

"  Child !  "  said  the  old  grandmother,  in  her  quavering 
tones,  as,  roused  by  the  excited  voice  of  her  grandson,  she 
reached  across  goodman  Allen,  and  laid  her  shrivelled  hand 
commandingly  upon  his  head,  "  Child !  be  not  wise  in  thine 
own  conceit.  Walk  in  the  footsteps  of  thy  fathers,  so  shalt 
thou  find  safety  and  peace." 

The  next  moment  she  had  sank  back  in  her  usual  attitude, 
and  seemed  to  have  lost  all  consciousness  of  their  presence. 

"  Grandmother  is  right,  Isaac,  though  it 's  a  long  time  since 
I  have  heard  her  speak  so  connectedly,"  said  David  Allen. 
"  Old  paths  are  the  wisest  and  best." 

"  Under  your  favor,  uncle,  I  think  not.  What  if  Luther, 
Calvin,  Pym,  Hampden,  Russell  and  Cromwell,  had  always 
plodded  along  in  the  old  beaten  paths  ?  Where  would  have 
been  our  boasted  freedom  ?  They  dared  to  think  for  them- 
selves, and  to  act  out  their  thoughts,  as  I  hold  every  true 
man  should  do,  else  he  is  unworthy  of  the  name !  "  replied 
the  excited  youth* 

"  Well,  well,  my  lad,  I  can't  say  but  what  you  may  be 
right ;  but  it  takes  a  longer  head  than  mine  to  see  through 
these  things,"  said  the  uncle,  thoughtfully. 

"And  what  is  it  you  wish  for — what  is  it  you  crave, 
Cousin  Isaac?"  said  the  dove-eyed  Dorcas,  looking  up  from 
her  knitting. 

He  gazed  at  her  full  a  second  before  he  replied,  not  daring 


THE  FIRST  GRAVE.  211 

or  not  caring  to  utter  in  that  presence  the  one  sweet  name 
that  rose  to  his  lips ;  then  reading,  in  her  downcast  eyes  and 
glowing  cheek,  that  she  partly  comprehended  his  hesitation, 
he  said : 

"  Fame,  Dorcas  !  I  would  be  a  star  among  my  fellow- 
men;  not,"  he  continued,  earnestly,  catching  the  reproving 
eye  of  his  aunt,  "  from  a  selfish  .ambition ;  not  to  set  myself 
above  them,  disclaiming  all  fellowship  or  sympathy  with 
them,  but  to  guide  them  in  the  midst  of  darkness  and  trouble 
—  to  raise  them  to  a  higher  and  purer  life.  When  Mr.  Pierson 
tells  us,  as  he  sometimes  does,  of  the  famous  men  that  lie  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  how,  as  a  boy,  he  used  to  wander 
among  their  monuments,  and  muse  on  their  lofty  deeds,  I  feel 
their  spirit  strong  within  me.  I,  too,  have  a  destiny  to 
achieve.  I  will  make  myself  a  monument  in  the  hearts  of 
my  countrymen,  so  that,  long  after  my  death,  in  all  times  of 
trouble  and  danger,  men  shall  turn  to  my  memory  as  sailors 
turn  to  the  polar  star.  I  care  not  where  I  die,  or  where  my 
body  lies,  but  I  would  not  have  my  name  forgotten  upon 
earth ! " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  one  I  love,"  said  Dorcas,  sadly. 

"  No,  child,  and  there  is  no  harm,  as  I  see,  in  the  lad's  wish 
to  be  remembered.  It 's  natural  to  us  all.  I  myself  should 
feel  kinder  bad,  if  I  thought,  after  I  'm  dead,  none  of  you 
would  take  the  trouble  to  put  up  a  decent  stone  with  my 
name  and  a  verse  of  Scripture  or  so  on  it,  to  let  people  know 
where  I  lie,"  said  David  Allen.  "  By  the  by,  Isaac,  did  I 
tell  you  we  have  set  off  the  green  sloping  field  between  the 
meeting-house  and  the  river,  for  a  burial  ground  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  they  told  me  so  in  the  village,  as  I  came  along ; 
and  I  stopped  a  moment,  and  wondered  who  would  be  laid 
there  first." 

"  So  I  ask  myself  every  Sabbath,"  said  Dorcas. 

"  I  guess  I  know,"  said  one  of  the  curled  heads  at  the 
other  end  of  the  settle.  "  Old  Goodman  Barker.  I  heard 


212  LEAVES  FROM   THE  TRKB  IGDRASYL. 

Deacon  Barnes  tell  father,  the  other  day,  that  he  was  most 
gone." 

"  Nathan,  Nathan  ! "  said  the  mother,  reprovingly. 

"  Who  is  it  wants  a  gravestone  ?  "  asked  the.  old  grandame, 
suddenly  rousing  up.  "  Now  I  think  of  it,  David,"  she  went 
on,  without  waiting  for  a  reply  to  her  query,  "  you  be  sure 
and  see  that  Job  Ritton  puts  on  to  •  mine,  Abigail,  relict  of 
Samuel  Allen  —  not  consort,  but  relict,  just  as  it  is  on  old 
Madam  Eaton's  stone." 

Here  Esther  Allen  interrupted  the  somewhat  lugubrious 
tone  of  the  conversation,  by  taking  the  younger  children  and 
the  not  less  childish  grandmother  to  their  beds ;  after  which, 
the  others  drew  closer  round  the  fire,  and  sat  chatting  cheer- 
fully until  the  hour-glass  on  the  shelf  had  marked  the  tenth 
hour  since  high  noon  —  unusually  late  for  them ;  but  then 
Isaac's  visits  were  very  rare,  and  he  was  ever  a  favorite  with 
his  simple-hearted  relations. 

From  his  childhood,  Isaac's  character  had  been  marked  by 
a  lofty  ambition.  Though  that  mind,  which  took  in  not  only 
the  present,  but  the  future,  as  its  field  of  action,  must  neces- 
sarily be  widely  different  in  its  inner  life  from  those  of  his 
more  contented  playmates  and  friends,  yet  he  possessed  a  gen- 
erosity of  character,  and  a  winning  kindness  of  manner,  that 
readily  disarmed  envy,  and  rendered  him  not  unworthy  of  the 
place  he  held  in  their  hearts. 

Even  the  sternest  of  his  father's  old  friends  and  neighbors, 
though  they  sometimes  shook  their  heads  very  gravely  at  what 
they  termed  his  "  carnal  pride,"  and  "  new-fangled  notions," 
liked  to  hear  him  talk ;  for  there  was  a  kind  of  charm,  even 
to  them,  in  the  earnest  enthusiasm  that  marked  all.  his 
words. 

"We  need  hardly  say  how  much  he  was  to  his  widowed 
mother  and  brother  Sam.  He  was  very  young  at  the  time  of 
his  father's  death ;  and,  as  Sam  was  several  years  his  senior 


THE   FIRST   GRAVE.  213 

he  regarded  him  with  something  like  the  mingled  love  of  a 
father  and  brother.  Sam  was  the  reverse  of  his  brother  in 
many  things ;  he  had  none  of  his  lofty  aspirations ;  he  cared 
little  for  the  world,  or  the  world's  opinion ;  but  he  had  all 
his  good-humor  and  buoyant  spirits ;  and,  if  he  was  proud  of 
anything,  it  was  Isaac. 

He  was  wont  to  boast  that  he  brought  him  up ;  and  there 
was  n't  another  lad  in  the  whole  township  that  could  manage 
a  wild  colt,  swing  a  scythe,  or  chop  into  a  tree,  quite  as  slick 
as  Isaac ;  and,  during  his  short  vacations,  there  was  always  a 
trial  of  skill  between  them  in  all  sorts  of  labor  common  to  the 
season.  In  good  sooth,  their  Uncle  Allen,  whose  good-nature 
made  him  a  favorite  with  them,  had  some  reason  for  calling 
them  a  "  couple  of  brags." 

The  next  morning,  after  the  early  breakfast  was  over,  the 
chapter  read,  and  the  prayer  offered,  in  the  house  of  David 
Allen,  Isaac  started  for  his  home,  which  lay  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  distant,  saying,  in  answer  to  their  entreaties  for  him  to 
abide  with  them  longer,  that  he  had  promised  Sam  to  go  on 
to  the  hill  with  him  that  day,  to  cut  the  great  oak  that  stood 
on  the  edge  of  a  deep  gorge,  known  to  this  day  as  the  "  Great 
Gulf." 

"  If  you  want  to  see  what  Sam  and  I  can  do,  Uncle  David, 
just  come  along  about  ten  o'clock,  and  you  shall  hear  a  crash," 
he  added,  gayly. 

"  Ay,  I  am  going  along  up  that  way  myself,  by-and-by ; 
and  may-be  I  '11  stop  and  lend  you  a  hand.  You  '11  get  tired 
out  by  that  time,  I  dare  say,"  replied  the  uncle,  in  the  same 
jocular  tone. 

"  Pray  be  careful,  Isaac,"  said  Dorcas;  "  you  and  Sam  are 
so  headlong  when  you  get  together." 

"  Never  fear  for  us,  Dorcas,"  cried  the  youth,  as  he  passed 
through  the  gate. 

"  Yet  it 's  a  pesky  bad  spot  to  Fall  a  tree  in,  lad,"  called 


214         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

David  Allen  after  him.  "  Be  careful,  or  you  will  have  it  at 
the  bottom  of  the  Gulf  before  you  think !  " 

"Ay,  ay,  sir !  "  came  ringing  back  through  the  clear  frosty 
air. 

In  about  an  hour  David  Allen  had  drained  his  mug  of  gin- 
gered cider,  drawn  on  his  mittens,  and,  standing  braced  out 
upon  the  beam  of  his  sled,  something  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Colossus  at  Rhodes,  drove  off  to  the  clearing  he  was  making 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Gulf.  The  hearth  was  swept,  the  old 
grandame  placed  in  the  warm  corner,  the  wheels  of  the  mother 
and  daughter  drawn  forth,  and  plied  with  busy  hands  and 
feet,  while  the  somewhat  strict  discipline,  which  had  been 
slightly  relaxed  during  Isaac's  visit,  was  again  put  in  force 
over  the  younger  children.  The  two  eldest  were  seated  on 
square  butts  of  trees,  which  served  for  stools,  shelling  the 
bright  kernels  of  the  Indian  corn  into  a  large  wooden  tub  that 
stood  between  them,  while  the  two  little  ones  built  cob- 
houses  on  the  floor,  in  imitation  of  the  leaning  towers  of 
Pisa. 

Their  voices  mingled  right  pleasantly  with  the  buzzing 
murmur  of  the  wheels  and  the  monotonous  dripping  of  the 
melting  snow  from  the  eaves,  and  the  whole  room  was  in 
cheerful  contrast  to  the  icy  winter  without. 

Neither  the  mother  nor  the  daughter  seemed  in  a  very  gar- 
rulous mood,  though  they  occasionally  exchanged  a  word  about 
some  hrtisehold  affair,  and  once  or  twice  spoke  of  Isaac  and 
his  ambitious  dreams.  Thus  the  hours  passed  on  ;  the  shadow 
on  the  window-sill  had  almost  receded  to  the  noon-mark,  when 
the  old  grandmother  suddenly  roused  herself,  and,  looking 
eagerly  round,  asked,  in  her  shrill,  tremulous  tones: 

"  Where 's  Isaac  ?    Where  's  Nabby's  boy  ?  " 

"  Isaac  went  home  before  you  were  up,  mother,"  returned 
Esther  Allen. 

"Ah,  well,  I  did  n't  know  what  might  n't  'a  happened  to  him. 
Was  n't  he  talking  about  shrouds  or  grave-stones,  or  some 


THE  FIRST   GRAVE.  215 

such  things,  last  night?  I  wonder  what  makes  him  think 
about  such  things?" 

"  Isaac's  head  runs  upon  everything,  mother." 

"  Sure  enough,  so  it  does;  but  I  wonder  what  he  should  be 
thinking  about  his  grave-stone  for,  when  I  have  never  quite 
made  up  my  mind  what  verse  to  have  Job  Kitton  put  on  to 
mine.  Now,  mebby  that 's  what  made  me  dream  so  last 
night  —  I  dreamed  Isaac  was  dead.  Queer  enough  that  I 
should  dream  of  Nabby's  boy's  dying,  a'n't  it  ?  "  she  muttered, 
spreading  out  the  palms  of  her  thin  hands  to  the  fire. 

"  Dream  of  a  death  is  a  sign  of  a  wedding,  mother,"  said 
Esther  Allen,  cheerfully. 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  good  sign,  but  I  've  known  it  to  fail,"  returned 
the  old  dame.  "  Many  a  time  have  I  heard  Submit  Leete's 
Aunt  Leah  tell  how  she  dreamed,  two  nights  running,  that 
Hilkiah  Palmer  was  dead ;  and,  sure  enough,  he  was  killed, 
not  long  after,  in  a  skirmish  between  our  troops  and  Prince 
Rupert's.  Kiah  was  Submit's  sweetheart,  you  know.  Well- 
a-day,  this  happened  a  long  time  ago,  before  I  left  home  and 
came  over  here  with  your  gran'ther.  I  spose  Leah  and  Sub- 
mit and  they  are  all  gone  before  this  time.  Your  gran'ther 
and  Submit  were  kinder  cousins." 

"  Don't  you  think  grandmother  more  flighty  than  usual  to- 
day, mother  ?  "  said  Dorcas,  upon  whom  the  old  dame's  words 
seemed  to  make  a  painful  impression,  as  she  rose  and  walked 
to  the  window. 

"  She  was  up  later  than  common  last  night,  and  a  little 
puts  her  out,"  returned  the  mother,  as  she  left  the  room  for  a 
distaff  of  flax. 

As  she  again  entered  the  room,  Dorcas  turned  towards  her 
an  ashen  face,  crying,  as  she  pointed  to  the  street : 

11  0,  mother,  mother !  He  is  dead !  I  knew  it  would  be 
so ;  I  have  felt  it  all  the  morning ! "  and  the  good  woman's 
cheek  turned  scarcely  less  pale,  as  she  saw  her  husband  and 


216         LEAVES  FROM  THE  IEEE  IGDRASYL. 

Sam  lift  a  human  body  from  their  sled,  and  bear  it  towards 
the  house. 

"  It  is  Isaac  —  Isaac,  mother !  "  cried  the  trembling  girl, 
clinging  to  her  for  support,  while  the  little  ones,  frightened 
by  her  cries,  fled  to  the  same  shelter. 

"  What 's  all  this  pother  about  Isaac  ?  "  said  the  old  gran- 
dame,  querulously.  "  Why  do  you  cry  for  him  ?  He  "a  to 
be  a  minister,  a  lamed  gospel  minister.  Fie,  child!  such 
takings-on  are  unmaidenly  and  improper." 

But  Dorcas  heard  her  not,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door, 
through  which  her  father  and  cousin  soon  entered  with  uneven 
steps,  and  bore  their  burden  to  a  bed  that  occupied  one 
corner  of  the  spacious  room.  There  was  no  need  to  gaze 
upon  that  mangled  face  to  tell  who  the  victim  was  —  one 
glance  at  the  faces  of  David  Allen  and  his  nephew  was  suffi- 
cient. 

They  gathered  around  the  bed  in  silence,  unbroken  for 
some  moments  by  sobs  or  groans.  The  suddenness  of  the 
blow  had  stunned  them.  Sam's  voice  was  the  first  to  break 
the  fearful  spell.  "  0,  my  mother — my  poor  mother!  "  he 
groaned,  as  he  stooped  his  head  upon  his  Aunt  Esther's  shoul- 
der and  wept  like  a  child. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  agony  of  that  hour  — 
we  cannot  paint  the  grief  that  like  a  gloomy  night  shut  so 
suddenly  down  upon  the  hearts  of  those  stricken  ones,  extend- 
ing, ere  nightfall,  its  dim  shadow  over  the  whole  settlement  — 
we  need  not,  for  there  are  few,  among  those  who  will  read  this 
sketch,  over  whose  threshold  the  invisible  footsteps  of  Death 
have  not  passed. 

Two  days  after,  the  body  of  the  young  student,  followed 
by  almost  every  family  in  the  settlement,  was  borne  along 
the  winding  forest  path  to  the  recently  erected  house  of  pub- 
lic worship.  After  a  brief  but  touching  address  by  the 
young  pastor,  it  was  again  borne  out  and  laid  down  in  the 
grave.  His  destiny  was  accomplished  —  his  yearning  wish 


THE  FIRST   GRAVE.  217 

realized  —  but,  0,  how  differently  from  what  he  had  dreamed ! 
His  name  is  still  held  in  remembrance  among  us,  but  not  for 
wisdom,  or  power,  or  deeds  of  high  emprise  —  but,  as  the 
first  tenant  of  our  village  grave-yard.  Even  to  this  day  we 

point  to  his  moss-grown  head-stone,  and  read,  "  Isaac  B , 

1727." 

19 


V. 

MARY  GRAYSON. 

"  Man  is  God's  image,  bat  the  poor  man  is  Christ's  stamp  to  boot." 

"  BUT,  my  dear  Miss  R ,  let  me  assure  you  that  this 

sympathy  for  paupers  is  quite  needless.  Where,  in  the  whole 
world,  is  there  such  excellent  provision  for  the  poor  as  in  our 
own  New  England?  The  judge,  my  husband,  who  should 
know  something  of  this  matter,  says  our  paupers  are  much 
better  off  than  we.  They  have  no  taxes  to  pay,  nothing  to 
be  anxious  about  —  only  to  eat  and  drink,  and,  perhaps, 
labor  a  little." 

And  my  good,  proper,  self-satisfied,  somewhat  aristocratic, 
but  really  kind-hearted,  "  fat,  fair  and  forty  "  friend,  Mrs. 
Judge  Lawson,  who  spoke  thus,  sank  back  on  the  sofa,  into 
her  usual  attitude  of  graceful  repose,  with  a  look  of  com- 
miseration for  my  ignorance  (I  not  having  borne  the  weight 
of  public  affairs,  as  the  wife  of  a  judge). 

"  Indeed !  "  I  replied  ;  "  then,  I  suppose  the  judge,  and, 
of  course,  yourself,  would  gladly  exchange  your  beautiful 
house  and  establishment  for  a  home  in  the  almshouse ;  or, 
perhaps,  you  would  prefer  being  put  up  at  auction,  to  be 
struck  off  at  the  lowest  living  price  per  week,  to  some  coarse, 
brutal  man,  whose  aim  would  be  to  make  you  do  the  most 
work  on  the  cheapest  living.  How  much  care  and  anxiety 
you  would  escape !  " 

"  How  absurd  !  Of  course,  there  are  different  stations  in 
life.  This  search  for  duty  out  of  our  own  sphere  is  what 
creates  so  much  confusion  in  the  world,"  replied  my  friend, 


MABY  GBAYSON.  219 

with  some  show  of  vexation.  "  But,  excuse  me,  my  dear, 
your  secluded  habits  have  not  adapted  you  to  appreciate 
what  the  judge  calls  the  manifold  relations  of  life." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Lawson ;  it  was'  because  I  do  feel 
these  relations  so  deeply,  that  I  stood  beside  that  old  pau- 
per's grave  to-day,  and  witnessed  the  hurried,  heartless  man- 
ner of  her  burial.  Our  poor-laws  may  be  very  wise,  but, 
when  I  heard  the  circumstances  of  her  death,  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  the  spirit  with  which  they  are  applied  is 
very  different  from  that  of  Him  who  left  us  the  poor  as  part 
of  his  dying  legacy.  Our  social  life,  though  rich  and  beau- 
tiful in  many  respects,  has  some  barbarism  lingering  in  it." 

"Heaven  save  us!  What  strange  ideas  people  do  run 
away  with !  "  exclaimed  the  judge's  lady,  raising  herself 
erect  on  the  sofa.  "  I  am  astonished,  my  dear,  that  a  person 
of  your  correct  taste  and  excellent  judgment  should  indulge 
such  fancies.  What  could  induce  you  to  go  to  that  old 
woman's  funeral  ?  " 

"  Respect  for  the  character  of  one  who,  in  very  humble 
and  trying  circumstances,  has  lived  a  true  and  noble  life." 

"  Did  you  know,  her?  " 

"  Yes."  And,  catching  the  inquisitive  glance  of  my 
friend's  daughter,  Eveline,  a  rose-lipped  girl  of  sixteen, 
whose  sense  of  les  convenances  I  had  somewhat  offended  by 
taking  her  to  a  pauper's  funeral,  I  added,  "  If  you  are  in- 
clined to  listen  I  will  tell  you  something  of  her  story." 

"  0,  do,  Miss  E, !"  exclaimed  Eveline,  snatching  a 

low  ottoman,  and  placing  herself  at  my  feet.  "  I  do  so  love 
to  hear  stories,  and  we  all  know  mamma's  penchant  that 
way.  And,  pray,  begin  at  the  beginning ;  for,  when  I  see 
such  old  shrivelled  women,  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  they 
were  "ever  young  and  fair." 

"Perhaps  Mary  Grayson  never  realized  the  standard  of 
beauty  peculiar  to  young  ladies  of  sixteen,  dear  Eva ;  but 
she  once  had  youth  and  health,  which  are  ever  intrinsically 


220         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

beautiful,  and  a  goodness  of  heart  and  cheerfulness  of  dispo- 
sition, which  transfigured,  as  it  were,  her  somewhat  irregular 
features,  and  gave  her  words  and  actions  a  charm  which  does 
not  belong  to  mere  physical  beauty. 

"  She  was  the  only  child  of  her  mother,  who  died  when 
she  was  about  ten  years  old.  Her  mother's  place  was  soon 
occupied,  not  fitted,  by  another  woman,  who,  though  naturally 
kind  and  well-meaning,  from  feeble  health  and  an  excessively 
nervous  temperament,  was  ill-calculated  for  the  trials,,  toils 
and  cares  of  married  life,  especially  when  a  rapidly  increas- 
ing family,  together  with  narrow  circumstances,  made  inces- 
sant demands  on  her  health  and  patience.  Of  course,  the 
atmosphere  of  Miles  Ghrayson's  house  was  not  always  clear 
and  bright  as  a  June  day.  It  more  frequently  resembled  a 
November  fog ;  and  it  would  be  idle  to  say  it  was  not  often 
so  thick  and  dark  that  the  cheerful  warmth  of  Mary's  heart 
could  not  gush  through  it.  But  if  she  could  not  always 
banish  the  clomd  from  her  father's  brow,  nor  soothe  the  fret- 
ful spirit  of  her  step-mother,  nor  even  transform  the  rising 
group  of  children  into  little  angels,  yet,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
she  could  bear  all  with  patience,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  next 
best  thing. 

"  One  thing  is  certain— they  all  loved  her.  True,  it  was  a 
too  selfish  love,  that  appreciated  not  so  much  her  unwearied 
devotion  as  their  need  of  it.  Her  true  worth  they  appre- 
ciated as  little  at  they  did  the  quiet  sunshine  that  stole 
through  the  broken  windows  to  glorify  their  mean  room. 
But,  when  one  is  beloved,  even  in  this  poor  way,  the  path  of 
life  seems  less  barren  and  difficult. 

"Thus  passed  ten  years,  for  time  does  not  stand  still  even 
at  the  doors  of  the  unhappy.  Then  came  death,  under  the 
form  of  a  malignant  fever,  and  carried  off  the  father  an<f  four 
of  the  children.  A  still  heavier  burden  was  now  laid  on 
Mary.  The  expenses  of  sickness  exhausted  what  little  prop* 
erty  her  father  ha»l  left ;  the  oldest  remaining  child,  a  boy 


MARY    URAYSOX.  221 

of  nine,  could  do  little  to  aid  her ;  and  it  was  difficult  to 
say  which  made  the  largest  demand  on  her  patience  and  love 
—  the  feeble,  despairing  mother,  or  the  poor,  puny  baby. 
Poor  Mary  !  She  saw  how  much  was  to  be  done,  and  how 
little  there  was  to  do  with,  and  almost  gaVe  way  in  despair. 

"Besides,  there  was  another  sore  trial.  Like  all  young 
maidens  she  had  her  dreams  of  the  future;  and,  for  the  last 
two  years,  she  had  not  dreamed  alone.  There  was  one,  an 
active,  intelligent  young  mechanic,  who  appreciated  her 
worth,  and  who  had  spoken  to  her  words  that  had  flooded 
her  heart  with  happiness.  They  were  both  poor.  Therefore 
they  had  decided  to  wait  until  the  young  man  could  lay  by 
something,  before  they  attempted  to  realize  together  their 
dreams  of  married  life.  Mary  was  no  subtle  reasoner,  but 
she  had  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  aided,  no  doubt,  in  this  case, 
by  her  sad  experience  of  the  miseries  of  poverty,  and  its 
frequent,  though  not  necessary,  accompaniments  —  ill-humor 
and  sourness  of  spirit. 

"  She  was  deeply  attached  to  this  young  man ;  but  now, 
when  he  came  to  her,  with  kind  words  and  loving  looks,  and 
spoke  hopefully  and  beautifully  of  their  future,  though  she 
laid  up  every  word  in  her  heart,  she  mournfully  shook  her 
head  and  wept,  from  joy  and  sorrow  —  joy  that  he  was  so 
good  and  true  —  sorrow  that,  in  her  present  circumstances, 
she  could  do  nothing  to  bless  his  life  or  make  their  dream 
real ;  for  how  could  she  leave  her  helpless  mother  and  the 
little  ones  for  a  life  of  happiness  ?  Would  not  that  little 
babe,  with  its  hollow  eyes  and  its  limbs  swollen  with  scrofula, 
haunt  her,  even  in  a  husband's  bosom  ?  And  how  could  she 
consent  to  burden  him  with  these  hapless  ones  ?  It  could 
not  be. 

"  The  hopes  that  had  blossomed  so  brightly  in  her  dreary 
path  were  too  dear  to  be  easily  renounced.  Long,  earnestly 
and  prayerfully,  she  strove  to  choose  the  right ;  and,  to  her, 
this  now  seemed  to  be  self-renunciation.  I  will  not  say  this 


222         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

decision  was  made  known  to  her  lover  calmly,  or  without 
many  tears,  for  she  was  a  loving  woman.  But  I  know  that 
all  his  expostulations  failed  to  change  it,  and  that  he,  at  last, 
in  some  measure,  felt  its  necessity. 

"  This  trial  over,  and  her  thoughts  all  bent  on  what  seemed 
duty,  the  way  of  life  grew  clearer  to  her.  She  found  a 
place  for  her  little  brother  with  a  kind  farmer,  and  directed 
all  her  energies  to  the  task  of  supplying  the  wants  of  her 
mother  and  infant  sister." 

"  And  her  lover,  Miss  R ,"  interrupted  Eveline ;  "  did 

her  lover  take  her  at  her  word  ?  Did  he  make  no  more 
efforts  to  win  her  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  give  her  up  easily,  Eva.  For  a  long  time  he 
cherished  the  hope  of  a  '  good  time  coming.'  He  was  good 
and  true,  and  more  than  once  sought  to  change  her  decision. 
But,  as  the  years  went,  through  the  misconduct  of  an  older 
brother,  his  own  mother  became  dependent  on  him  for  sup- 
port, and  he  finally  took  Mary's  friendly  counsel,  and  mar 
ried  a  worthy  girl  who  had  long  been  a  friend  to  the*  both.' 

"  How  horribly  unromantic  and  common-place ! "  ex 
claimed  Eva. 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  but  your  grandfather  was  always  mon 
remarkable  for  good  sense,  than  romance,  I  believe." 

"  My  grandfather  !     You  are  joking,  Miss  R ." 

"  No,  indeed.     I  mean  it  seriously." 

""You  are   certainly  mistaken,  my  dear   Miss  R ," 

broke  in  Mrs.  Lawson.  "  It  cannot  be  that  you  are  speak- 
ing of  Judge  Lawson's  father." 

"  It  certainly  was  as  I  say.  Mary  Grayson's  lover  was 
no  other  than  your  husband's  father." 

"  How  strange !  Now,  I  do  recollect  hearing  the  judge 
say,  that,  owing  to  some  reverses,  the  family  was,  at  one 
time,  quite  reduced." 

"  O,  yes,  mamma !  Don't  you  remember  when  papa  was 
ebk,  a  great  many  years  ago,  he  used  to  make  such  pretty 


MAKY   QRAYSON. 

chairs  and  tables  for  my  dolls,  and  how  he  told  Fred,  and  me, 
what  nice  times  he  and  Aunt  Mills  used  to  have  playing  with 
the  chips  and  shavings  in  his  father's  shop ;  and  how  pleased 
they  used  to  be  with  a  pair  of  new  shoes,  and  all  that  ?  " 

I  cast  a  rather  curious  glance  at  my  friend.  For  a  mo- 
ment a  light  frown  darkened  her  smooth  brow.  Then,  dis- 
missing her  judicial  dignity,  she  gave  way  to  the  revived 
feelings  of  the  time,  when,  "as  the  wife  of  a  promising 
young  attorney,  she  was  rationally  happy  in  her  husband  and 
children.  She  laughed  in  every  feature  and  motion,  as  she 
replied : 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  and  how,  regularly  as  the  day  came,  you 
littered  our  only  parlor;  and  Fred.,  the  little  mischief,  bored 
holes  in  the  carpet  —  all  the  carpet  we  had ;  and  how  morti- 
fied I  was  when  Senator  Smith  and  his  wife  called  and  found 
our  parlor  transformed  into  a  workshop." 

Rejoiced  to  see  my  friend,  by  the  force  of  memory  and 
love,  bursting  the  chill  shroud  of  conventional  pride  which 
for  some  years  she^  had  endeavored  to  wear,  I  pressed  her 
hand  and  went  on  with  my  story. 

"  Mary's  untiring  devotion  to  her  mother  and  sister  awak- 
ened much  sympathy  in  her  behalf  among  the  neighbors.  A 
kind  neighbor  taught  her  to  weave ;  and,  in  those  days,  when 
the  wealthiest  thought  it  no  disgrace  to  wear  homespun,  and 
when  every  young  maiden  was  required  to  furnish  her  linen- 
chest  with  the  labor  of  her  own  hands,  weaving,  though  labo- 
rious, was  a  rather  lucrative  employment.  The  whirr  of  her 
shuttle  and  the  stroke  of  her  lathe  were  heard  from  morning 
till  night.  Yet  how  few  of  the  good  housewives  and  merry 
maidens,  who  admired  the  firm  texture  of  her  cloth,  or  the 
tasteful  patterns  of  her  table-linen  and  coverlets,  understood 
the  disappointed  hopes  and  bitter  tears  which  the  poor  girl 
had  inwoven  with  them  ! 

"  Then  came  a  time,  and  a  sore  time  it  was,  when  the 
mother  could  no  longer  bear  the  noise  of  the  loom.  For 


224         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

many  months  she  was  confined  to  her  bed,  a  prey  to  all  man- 
ner of  hypochondriac  fancies.  The  slightest  noise,  a  breath 
of  air,  even  the  draught  through  the  keyhole,  she  fancied 
would  cause  her  immediate  death.  For  many  weeks,  Mary 
sat  in  the  close,  unhealthy  atmosphere  of  that  small  room, 
ministering  to  her  capricious  wants,  or  soothing  the  frettul- 
nesa  of  little  ElleS,  while  every  spare  moment  was  devoted  to 
her  needle.  At  length,  God  mercifully  sent  a  release,  by 
taking  the  mother  from  earth.  I  say  mercifully,  Eveline. 
Look  not  so  surprised,  for  death  is  oftener  a  friend  in  dis- 
guise to  its  victims,  and  those  near  them,  than  we  suspect.  I 
said  to  your  washer-woman,  this  morning  : 

"  '  Your  Aunt  Sarah  is  dead,  I  hear.' 

" « Ah  yes,  Miss ! '  she  replied  with  much  feeling  ;  and  then 
added,  '  She  has  been  waiting  to  go  a  long  time,  and  now 
grandfather  and  grandmother  can  have  their  bed-room  again. 
They  will  be  more  comfortable,  and  grandfather's  pension 
will  go  much  further.' 

"This  was  not  want  of  affection,  Evejine;  but  poverty  is  a 
hard  master,  and  food  and  room  are  essential  needs.  For 
some  years  after  the  death  of  her  mother,  Mary  supported 
herself  and  her  little  sister  comfortably,  and  even  laid  by  a 
small  sum  to  aid  them  in  case  of  sickness  and  misfortune. 
John,  the  brother,  was  placed  at  a  trade,  and  all  seemed  to 
go  well. 

"  She  had  much  joy,  also,  in  the  thought  that  her  undevi- 
ating  patience  and  kindness  had  aided  to  work  a  change  in 
the  heart  of  her  invalid  sister.  Ellen  was  not  without  strong 
affections,  but  her  temper  was  irritable  and  violent.  She  was 
by  no  means  a  pleasant  companion  for  the  children  of  the 
neighbors ;  yet  she  was  extremely  sensitive,  and  their  slights, 
together  with  the  many  privations  of  her  condition,  tended  to 
produce  in  her  an  envious,  discordant  state  of  mind.  As  she 
grew  older,  these  feelings  developed  themselves  more  fully, 
until,  at  the  time  of  her  mother's  death-  she  was  a  very  disa* 


MARY   GRAYSON.  225 

greeable,  unhappy  child.  But  pain,  that '  God-commissioned 
angel,'  as  one  of  my  friends  calls  it,  is  often  sent  to  sow  the 
seed  of  eternal  life ;  and,  watered  and  tended  as  it  was  by 
the  unwearied  love  of  Mary,  this  seed,  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
produced  in  the  heart  of  Ellen  a  rich  harvest. 

"  She  became  patient,  meek,  self-sacrificing,  and,  by  true 
inward  goodness,  learned  the  great  secret  of  making  herself 
agreeable  to  others.  Thus,  when  the  scrofula  fell  into  her 
eyes,  neither  she  nor  Mary  felt  as  others  who  said  the  great- 
est of  all  trials  had  come  upon  her.  They  knew  that  an  en- 
vious, unhappy  disposition  is  far  worse,  for  that  blinds  the 
soul.  Mary  shed  sorrowful  tears  when  the  darkness,  that  was 
to  shut  out  the  beautiful  world  from  her  sister's  eyes,  began 
to  steal  over  them;  but  they  bowed  themselves  to  this 
stroke. 

"  Then  Mary  felt  her  privations  most  'keenly.  She  could 
not  bear  to  leave  Ellen  alone,  day  after  day,  in  her  darkened, 
solitary  room ;  but  she  could  not  see  to  sew  there,  and  their 
daily  bread  depended  on  her  labor,  for  their  little  hoard  had 
been  eagerly  expended,  with  the  vain  hope  of  saving  the  poor 
girl's  sight.  Every  moment  she  could  steal  from  her  work 
she  passed  in  Ellen's  room ;  it  was  not  dark  in  their  hearts, 
though  the  brightness  of  God's  sunlight  was  carefully  ex- 
cluded, and  the  shadow  rested  on  their  faces.  After  many 
weeks,  Ellen  came  forth  from  that  darkened  room,  but  totally 
blinded.  She  soon  learned,  by  Mary's  patient  teaching,  to 
fill  the  quills  for  the  shuttle,  and  to  do  many  other  little 
things ;  and  thus,  humbly  and  trustingly,  they  went  hand  in 
hand  on  the  way  of  life  for  nearly  thirty  years,  until  the 
blind  one  passed  from  the  darkness  of  this  earth  into  the 
light  of  perfect  day. 

"  Mary  was  now  a  gray-haired  woman.  The  long  yeara 
of  confinement  and  excessive  toil  had  broken  her  constitution  ', 
but  not  until  the  last  care  was  taken  from  her,  did  she  feel 
her  weakness.  Still  she  strove  on,  and  gradually  her  serene, 


226  LEA  VIS    FllOM    THE   TREE   IGDRA3YL. 

motherly  face,  became  a  gladness  and  a  light  in  ail  those 
dwellings  about  her  where  sickness,  sorrow,  or  trouble,  had 
taken  up  its  abode.  She  was  an  angel  to  all  who  suffered. 
Her  experience  of  trial  and  suffering  had  ennobled  her.  It 
gave  weight  and  efficacy  to  her  creed,  which  she  invariably 
whispered  in  the  ears  of  the  sorrowing, '  We  know  not  what 
is  best ;  but  our  Lord,  he  doeth  all  things  well.' 

"  There  are  some  gentle  souls,  who,  through  the  blessing 
of  God,  seem  to  have  come  early  into  harmony  with  the 
Highest,  whose  lives  seem  attuned  to  some  inward  music,  so 
quietly  and  gracefully  do  they  pass  along  the  ways  of  earth. 
Others  there  are,  whose  destiny  is  to  be  made  perfect 
through  suffering.  By  reason  of  passion  and  temptation, 
they  are  '  without  form  and  void,  and  darkness  is  on  the  face 
of  the  deep.'  For  these  there  is  combat  and  suffering,  before 
they  can  begin  to  utter  truly  the  '  Miserere  mei  Deus,'  and 
feel  that  the  Eternal  Spirit  broods  over  their  life.  At  length, 
in  such  souls,  the  jarring,  conflicting  elements  are  charmed 
into  peace  at  His  voice,  and  their  sad  '  Miserere '  changes  to 
the  joyful  but  solemn  '  De  profundis '  —  '  Out  of  the  deeps 
have  I  called  unto  thee,  0  Lord.'  There  are  others,  meek 
and  patient,  who,  through  sins  and  misfortunes  not  their  own, 
are  compelled  to  bear  the  cross  always,  onward  to  the  grave. 
These  belong,  chiefly,  to  what  are  termed  the  '  lower  classes  '— 
the  Helots,  the  burden-bearers  of  life.  Among  these,  we  may 
find  angels  on  earth ;  but,  often,  not  till  they  die  do  their 
nearest  friends  rightly  appreciate  them,  and  discover  that 
they  have  had  angels  with  them.  Mary  Grayson  was  one  of 
the  unobtrusive,  unnoticed  servants  of  humanity. 

"  For  many  years  before  her  death,  the  conduct  of  her 
brother  John  had  caused  her  much  sorrow.  He  was  a  good 
workman,  but  of  an  unstable,  restless  temperament,  steady  to 
nothing,  but  constantly  roaming  from  place  to  place  in  search 
of  better  work  or  wages.  Finally,  he  married  a  young  girl, 
whose  life  had  been  passed  chiefly  in  a  factory,  and  who 


MARY    GRAYSON.  227 

knew  little  or  nothing  of  domestic  affairs.  Matters  went 
badly  with  them.  They  both  became  intemperate,  and  their 
large  family  of  children,  instead  of  awakening  in  them  a 
sense  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  life,  only  proved  a 
source  of  discord  and  misery.  They  went  from  place  to 
place,  until,  about  a  year  ago,  they  took  up  their  residence 

in  E .  There  the  miserable  mother  sickened  and  died. 

John,  roused  for  a  while  from  his  habits,  remembered  his 
sister  Mary,  and  wrote  to  her,  bewailing  his  errors,  and 
beseeching  her  to  come  to  him. 

"  E was  twenty  miles  distant;  '  Aunt '  Mary  was  old 

and  feeble,  and,  besides,  she  had  never  in  her  life  undertaken 
such  a  journey.  The  neighbors  advised  her  not  to  go.  But 
she  thought  of  the  children,  hoped  to  bless  her  brother,  and 
went.  A  miserable  abode,  indeed,  was  that  which  awaited 
her.  She  found  her  brother  fast  approaching  a  drunkard's 
grave.  His  children  were  ragged,  quarrelsome  and  ungov- 
ernable. But  love  and  patience  can  do  much,  "even  in  such  a 
place ;  and  gradually  the  discordant  elements  began  to  yield 
to  her  power.  She  was  like  an  angel  of  hope  among  them ; 
but,  it  must  be  confessed,  it  was  sometimes  almost  impossible 
to  feel  or  hear  her  through  the  tempest  of  violent  passion  that 
was  apt  to  rage  there.  Her  brother  died,  but  she  had  the 
joy  of  knowing  that  he  left  the  world  sober  and  penitent. 
Her  mission  on  earth  was  now  to  close.  The  next  morning 
after  the  funeral  she  did  not  rise  as  usual ;  and  when  the 
frightened  children  gathered  round  her  bed,  she  was  speech- 
less from  paralysis. 

"  The  town  authorities  of  E now  took  the  family  in 

hand.  The  children  were  sent  as  paupers  to  the  places  of 
their  birth,  and  Mary  was  carried  to  the  almshouse,  where 
she  remained  several  weeks,  until  she  showed  some  symptoms 
of  amendment.  Then  she  was  placed  in  a  common  lumber 
wagon,  and  sent  to  her  native  place.  She  was  born  and 
lived  in  the  second  school  society  in  this  town.  But  the 


228         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

driver  brought  her  here ;  and  when  they  proceeded  to  take 
her  from  the  wagon,  they  lifted  out  a  corpse." 

11  But,  surely,  there  was  no  toeed  of  such  inhuman  pro- 
ceedings !  "  exclaimed  the  judge's  lady. 

"  Certainly  not ;  but  then  she  was  only  an  old  pauper,  you 
know ;  and  it  is  not  the  fashion  to  be  very  attentive  or  deli- 
cate with  paupers." 

11  But  the  laws  require  paupers  to  be  taken  care  of!  " 

"  Ah !  yes ;  but  I  tell  you  it  is  not  so  much  the  laws  I 
.-speak  of,  as  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  applied.  The  select- 
men of  E would  be  very  much  astonished  if  any  one 

should  charge  them  with  inhumanity.  They  acted  for  the 
public,  and  their  chief  aim  was  to  save  their  town  unneces- 
sary trouble  and  expense.  In  my  childhood  I  knew  and 
loved  Aunt  Mary ;  but,  in  the  shifting  scenes  of  my  life,  I 
had,  for  several  years,  lost  sight  of  her.  The  particulars  of 
her  death  I  gathered  from  one  of  her  old  neighbors,  who  had 
walked  nearly  three  miles  to  attend  her  funeral. 

"  '  Only  to  think  of  it,  Miss  R ,'  she  sobbed,  '  that  she 

who  was  so  good,  and  who  so  patiently  fulfilled  the  blessed 
words,  "  Bear  one  another's  burdens,"  could  not  be  permitted 
to  die  under  shelter,  like  a  Christian ! ' " 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Lawson,  "  this  case  is 
an  exception  to  the  general  rule.  There  are  few  such  cases, 
I  trust.  Believe  me,  if  I  b.ad  known  her,  I  would  have 
attended  to  her  myself;  "  and  she  spoke  with  a  look  of 
earnest  sincerity,  that  made  her  really  beautiful.  I  replied  : 

"  I  do  believe  you ;  but,  until  we  learn  to  look  beyond  the 
external  and  accidental,  we  shall  not  be  likely  to  appreciate 
such  characters.  But  Eva,  dear,  what  is  it  ? "  I  inquired, 
on  seeing  Eveline  look  in  my  face,  with  an  expression  of 
anxiety  and  hesitation. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  poorly  of  me,  Miss  R , 

but  I  wish  to  tell  you  how  silly  I  was  to-day,  when  you  left 
the  road  to  Mrs.  Granger's  and  fell  into  that  funeral  proces- 


MABY   GRAYSON.  229 

sion.  I  wondered  what  you  could  mean  by  mingling  with 
such  meanly-dressed  people.  And  when  Annette  Granger 
and  her  brother  drove  past,  as  we  stood  by  the  grave,  to 
escape  their  notice  I  let  go  your  arm,  and  slipped  behind  that 
great,  fat,  horribly-dressed  woman,  to  whom  you  spoke  after- 
wards. But  henceforth,"  she  earnestly  continued,  "  I  will  be 
wiser.  I  deem  it  an  honor  to  have  followed  that  old  pauper 
to  the  grave,  for  she  seems  to  me  to  have  been  a  true 
heroine." 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  replied  the  mother,  "  and  in  that  sphere 
of  life,  and  in  circumstances  where  it  is,  perhaps,  most  difficult 
to  live  heroically,  and  yet  where,  I  fear,  such  lives  are  most 
often  found.  "We  will  thank  our  friend  for  her  story,  and 
try  to  remember  the  lesson"  shfc  continued,  glancing  signifi- 
cantly at  me ;  as  she  passed  her  hand  caressingly  through  her 
daughter's  curls. 

Now  God  be  praised,  I  thought.  If  Mary  Grayson  can 
look  down  from  heaven  upon  them,  and  see  how  her  "  works 
follow  her,"  how  they  have  power  to  thaw  the  benumbing  ice 
of  conventionalism  from  the  heart  of  my  friend,  will  she  not 
Bay,  even  of  her  pauper  death,  "  We  know  not  what  is  best 
—  He  doeth  all  things  well "? 
20 


VI. 
THE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

«•  Pull  merrily  rings  the  millstone  round, 

Full  merrily  rings  the  wheel, 
Full  merrily  gashes  out  the  grist  — 
(Tome,  taste  my  fragrant  meal. 

"  The  miller  he  's  a  worldly  man, 

And  maun  hae  double  fee  ; 
So  draw  the  sluice  in  the  churl's  dam, 
And  let  the  stream  gae  free." 

Song  of  the  Elfin  Mller. 

FAB  up  amid  the  deep  gorges,  the  tangled  thickets  and 
cedar  groves  of  old  Tetoket,  spring  forth  numberless  moun- 
tain brooks,  that  come  leaping  and  tumbling  down  the  rugged 
mountain  sides,  calling  to  one  another  in  merry,  musical 
voices,  like  children  at  hide-and-seek,  until  wearied  with  their 
sport,  and  catching,  as  it  were,  the  deep  solemn  voice  of  the 
ocean,  they  mingle  their  waters  in  one  channel,  and  with 
hushed  voices  go  winding  quietly  through  our  village,  to  seek 
the  bosom  of  their  mighty  mother. 

After  this  "  meeting  of  the  waters,"  the  stream  winds  along 
for  about  two  miles,  through  a  broken  valley,  then  making  a 
sudden  turn,  finds  itself  imprisoned'  between  two  hills,  across 
the  southern  opening  of  which  is  a»massive  dam,  built  of  great 
black  logs,  against  which  the  indignant  water  dashes  and 
foams,  and  then  subsiding,  drips,  drips,  with  an  indescribable, 


THE    MILLER.  231 

• 

mournful  murmur,  as  if  bewailing  its  fate,  while  the  diytant 
voice  of  old  ocean  calls  in  vain  for  her  child.  The  eastern 
bank  rises  in  a  high  bluff,  then  stretches  away  in  wide  pas- 
tures; but  on  the  west  the  ground  slopes  gradually  back,  and, 
sheer  from  the  water's  edge,  is  studded  with  magnificent  oaks, 
walnuts  and  maples,  interspersed  with  here  and  there  a  dark 
and  stately  cedar.  The  pond  stretches  back  a  half-mile  or 
so,  and  along  its  margin  float  the  queenly  water-lilies,  like 
fairy  boats,  intermingled  with  tall  flags  and  the  tassels  of  the 
drooping  alders.  Close  by  the  dam,  and  half  overhanging 
the  water,  as  if  it  ever  had  a  fancy  to  topple  in,  stands  the 
weather-beaten  mill,  with  its  great,  skeleton-looking  wheel, 
which,  like  some  giant  monster,  grinds  and  pounds  the  limpid 
water,  until  it  exhales  away  in  glittering  spray,  or,  escaping 
from  its  clutches,  sighs  faintly  amid  the  willow-roots  and 
rushes  that  fringe  its  bed  below  the  bridge.  .  The  floor  within 
is  strewed  with  sacks  and  powdered  over  with  'meal,  over 
which  the  tracks  of  the  miller  and  his  visitors  describe  all 
manner  of  figures ;  the  cobwebs  overhead  are  coated  over 
until  they  look  like  frosted  flowers,  and  the 

"  Very  air  about  the  door 
Is  misty  with  the  floating  meal." 

Here  dwelt  Jedediah  Sewall,  the  miller,  for  the  farm-house 
a  few  rods  west  was  to  him  nothing  more  than  a  lodging- 
house.  Miller  Jed,  as  he  was  generally  called,  was  a  little, 
withered  man,  with  joints  distorted  by  hard  labor,  and  mus- 
cles of  iron.  Flesh  he  had  none  to  speak  of,  and  the  tough 
brown  skin  stretched  over  the  joints,  and  clung  to  the  bones, 
as  if  it  had  some  time  undergone  a  baking  process.  In  his 
mealy  suit,  with  his  glittering  black  eyes  peering  out  from 
beneath  the  brim  of  his  white  hat  and  powdered  hair,  he 
looked  very  much  like  one  of  the  great  spiders  coiled  up  in 
their  white  webs  on  the  rafters  overhead ;  and  the  resem- 
blance was  true  in  more  points  than  one,  for,  like  the  spider, 


232         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDBASYL.    0 

whatever  came  within  his  clutches  never  found  its  way  out 
again.  For  more  than  forty  years  he  had  lived  in  the  mill, 
sniffing  the  mealy  air,  shouldering  heavy  sacks,  and  compel- 
ling the  free,  glad  waters  to  toil  for  him,  while,  with  his  keen 
eyes  bent  over  the  trough,  with  his  long  bent  fingers  he 
scooped  out  handful  after  handful  of  soft  white  meal  for  toll. 
People  said  that  his  fingers  were  ever  ready  bent  for  grasp- 
ing, but  that  no  one  had  ever  known  them  to  relax  under  the 
influence  of  charity  and  human  love. 

Money,  money  was  his  dream  by  day  and  night  —  his 
god ;  and  to  it  he  had  sacrificed  his  manhood  —  his  human- 
ity. True,  after  maturely  counting  the  cost,  he  married,  late 
in  life,  his  housekeeper,  to  save  her  wages ;  wisely  considering 
that  she  would  eat  no  more  as  his  wife  than  as  his  house- 
keeper, and,  besides,  in  this  way,  he  should  gain  possession 
of  not  only  what  he  had  paid  her,  but  also  the  small  sum 
which  she  already  possessed  when  she  came  there.  There  was 
one  result  of  this  marriage  which,  although  it  could  hardly 
fail,  in  the  end,  of  exerting  a  humanizing  influence  over  him, 
seemed  for  many  years  to  render  him  only  more  miserly  and 
grasping.  This  was  the  birth  of  a  son,  whose  existence  cost 
his  mother  her  life.  It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  the  miller 
did  not  feel  some  unusual  thrills  about  his  heart  as  he  gazed 
upon  the  helpless  infant,  or  a  strange  sensation  of  terror  and 
awe  as  he  looked  upon  the  rigid  features  of  her  whom  he  had 
called  wife.  But  scarce  were  the  clods  of  the  grave-yard 
pressed  over  her,  when  his  thoughts  returned  to  their 
wonted  channel,  and  avarice  began  to  repine  that  she  did  not 
live  to  nurse  the  child.  It  would  have  been  such  a  saving. 

But,  as  Death  is  deaf  alike  to  the  voice  of  Avarice  and 
Love,  the  old  woman  who  had  officiated  as  nurse  to  the 
mother  was  retained  to  take  charge  of  the  child,  which  throve 
finely  under  her  care,  and  manifested  a  fondness  for  her  which 
gladdened  the  lone  old  creature's  heart.  Isaac,  for  so  they 
called  the  boy,  was  about  seven  years  old  before  Miller  Jed 


THE   MILLER.  238 

thought  of  sending  him  to  school.  Not  that  the  boy  was  alto- 
gether ignorant,  for  Widow  Barker  had  taught  him  the  names 
and  habits  of  the  various  birds  and  squirrels  thai  made  their 
homes  in  the  woods  behind  the  house  ;  he  knew  all  the  herbs 
that  grew  about  there,  and  their  uses  ;  and  something  too  of 
ichthyology  he  knew,  though  if  old  "  Grannie  Barker,"  as  he 
called  her,  had  heard  that  term  applied  to  her  lessons,  she 
would  have  lifted  her  great-eyed  spectacles,  and  rubbed  her 
forehead  in  sore  amazement.  Nevertheless,  she  'had  often 
taken  him  up  the  borders  of  the  pond  with  her,  in  search  of 
greens,  or  some  rare  herbs,  holding  him  closely  by  the  hand,  — 
for  though  Miller  Jed  seldom  noticed  him,  yet,  ever  since  his 
wife  died,  he  had  manifested  a  great  dread  of  death,  and  had 
strictly  forbidden  Isaac  to  go  near  the  pond  alone, — and  pointed 
out  to  him  the  minnows  glancing  and  poising  themselves  in  the 
clear  waters,  the  rosy-gilled  roach,  and  the  slender,  graceful 
perch.  Then,  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  the  old  woman 
brought  into  requisition  her  library,  consisting  of  her  Bible 
and  hymn-book,  and  a  strangely  retentive  memory  of  the  most 
remarkable  cases  in  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,  which  she  had 
met  with  some  time  in  her  younger  days.  With  these  the 
child  became  early  familiar,  and  to  their  influence  perhaps 
may  be  traced  his  fate  as  a  man.  He  was  a  bright,  gentle, 
affectionate  boy,  a  little  more  thoughtful  than  is  usual  for 
children  of  his  age,  owing  to  the  solitary  life  he  led  with  his 
old  nurse,  for  they  saw  no  company,  save  when  some  farmer 
chanced  to  call  to  see  some  very  choice  specimens  of  grain,  or 
some  poor  debtor,  whose  mismanagement  or  misfortunes  had 
given  the  old  miller  a  claim  upon  his  property. 

How  long  his  father  would  have  kept  him  at  home,  with  no 
teacher  save  his  old  nurse,  if  the  boy  himself  had  not  expressed 
a  wish  to  go  to  school,- we  cannot  say.  But  all  through  the 
pleasant  spring  days  the  child  had  seen  a  tall,  spare  woman, 
leading  a  little  girl  about  his  own  size,  come  along  the  wind- 
ing cart-path  which  led  through  the  woods,  until  they  reached 
20*  * 


284         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

«•» 

a  pair  of  bars  by  the  road-side.  Here,  after  helping  the  little 
girl  over,  and  placing  a  gayly-colored  basket  in  her  hand,  the 
woman  left  her,  and  retraced  her  path  through  the  woods, 
often  turning  to  mark  the  progress  of  the  child  as  she  moved 
down  the  green  lane.  And  at  about  the  same  hour  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen,  the  little  girl 
came  tripping  up  the  lane,  swinging  her  basket  in  her  hand, 
and  was  met,  either  by  the  pale-faced  woman,  or  a  white 
haired  old  man. 

Isaac  was  very  curious  about  these  people,  and  Widow 
Barker  told  him  that  the  child  was  Mercy  Ward,  on  her  way 
to  school ;  and  that  she  lived  with  her  mother  and  grand- 
father at  the  distance  of  more  than  a  mile  on  the  other  side 
of  the  woods.  "  And  an  old  rickety-looking  place  enough  it 
is  now,"  she  added,  more  to  herself  than  the  child,  "  though  I 
mind  me  of  the  time  when  the  Wards  held  their  heads  as  high 
as  anybody ;  though  for  that  matter  I  can't  say  but  they  do 
now ;  for  old  Captain  Adam  Ward  has  pride  enough  himself 
for  ten  generations." 

Widow  Barker  was  no  great  friend  of  schools ;  she  thought 
it  a  crime,  deserving  little  short  of  hanging,  to  shut  children 
up  all  day  to  pore  over  books ;  and,  as  Isaac  had  gained  all 
his  ideas  from'  her,  he  heartily  pitied  the  little  girl,  and 
thought  she  had  much  better  stay  and  play  with  him.  He 
longed  to  tell  her  so ;  but  he  was  a  shy  boy,  and  contented 
himself  with  watching  her  morning  and  evening,  as  she  skip- 
ped along  by  the  side  of  her  mother,  or  with  a  more  demure 
manner  tried  to  make  her  uneveu  steps  correspond  to  the  reg- 
ular pace  of  her  grandfather.  It  sometimes  happened  that 
she  arrived  at  the  bars  some  moments  before  her  friends  came 
to  meet  her ;  and,  on  one  of  these  occasions,  Isaac,  who  had 
been  gathering  raspberries  along  the  fence,  ventured  to  ap- 
proach her,  and,  holding  up  the  purple  fruit,  strung  after  a 
primitive  fashion,  taught  him  by  "  Grannie  Barker,"  on  a  long 
spire  of  herds-grass,  offered  to  share  it  with  her.  The  offer 


'IKE   MILLER.  235 

was  readily  accepted,  and  when  Jane  Ward  came  to  meet  her 
child,  she  found  her  seated  on  a  large  flat  stone  by  the  side 
of  Miller  Jed's  boy,  her  lips  and  fingers  stained  to  a  deep 
crimson  by  the  rich  fruit,  gravely  striving  to  overcome  his 
prejudices  against  schools.  Isaac  stood  on  the  spot,  watching 
them  until  the  trees  hid  them  from  his  sight ;  then  he  walked 
thoughtfully  into  the  house,  and,  to  the  consternation  of  Mrs. 
Barker,  declared  he  was  going  to  school.  Stories  of  cruel 
teachers,  of  great,  reckless  boys,  of  perils  by  the  way-side, 
made  no  impression  upon  him,  and  the  old  woman,  declaring 
it  to  be  her  honest  belief  that  the  child  was  "  possessed,"  ap- 
pealed to  his  father.  The  miller  seemed  struck  with  the  idea, 
and  said  the  child  must  know  something  about  reading,  writ- 
ing and  arithmetic,  to  get  along  in  the  world,  and  might  as 
well  begin  then.  Again  the  old  woman,  brought  up  her  fears, 
and,  when  she  went  on  to  speak  of  the  possibility  of  the  child's 
being  gored  to  death  by  some  vicious  animal  in  the  street,  ho 
involuntarily  glanced  towards  the  corner  of  the  room  where 
the  dead  body  of  his  wife  had  lain,  and  said,  hastily,  that  she 
could  ask  old  Ward's  grand-daughter  to  call  for  him  every 
day.  What  protection  there  could  be  in  the  presence  of  little 
Mercy  Ward,  Miller  Jed  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  tell ; 
possibly,  even  his  hard,  selfish  nature  felt  the  power  of  inno- 
cence. 


•         .      CHAPTER   ii. 

"  The  lovely  cottage,  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  !  " 

"  Ward's  Hollow  "  is  a  green,  pear-shaped  valley,  shut  in 
between  ranges  of  low,  wooded  hills.  A  small,  clear  brook, 
that  has  its  source  in  some  hidden  spring  beneath  the  rocks 
on  the  northern  side,  winds  leisurely  through  it,  as  if  loth  to 
leave  its  sheltered  precincts,  until,  catching  a  view  of  the 


236  LEAVES    FROM    TUB   TIUtK   IGDRASYL. 

gleaming  mill-stream  through  an  opening  at  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  valley,  it  dashes  forward  with  a  new  im- 
petus, like  a  delighted  school-boy,  to  overtake  its  companion. 

At  the  northern  end  the  hills  assume  a  bolder  front,  and 
are  seamed  with  gray  ledges  of  gneiss,  amid  the  crevices  of 
which  grow  many  wild  flowers,  and  queer,  grotesque-shaped 
trees,  butternuts  principally,  at  all  angles  with  the  horizon. 
The  ground  at  -the  foot  of  these  bruffs  is  the  highest  portion 
of  the  valley,  and  here,  directly  facing  the  southern  opening, 
stood  the  old  Ward  farm-house. 

Here,  at  the  first  settlement  of  our  village,  Adam,  ninth 
son  of  Corporal  Adam  Ward  of  Ely,  one  of  Cromwell's  old 
troopers,  raised  his  rude  hut  of  logs,  and  manifested  the  same 
energy  and  perseverance  in  subduing  the  wild  forest,  as  had 
animated  his  father,  when  he  fell,  at  the  head  of  his  band,  at 
the  celebrated  siege  of  Basing  House.  And  well  did  mother 
earth  reward  his  toil.  The  valley,  or  Hollow,  as  he  named  it, 
lay  like  a  rich  garden  smiling  up  to  heaven,  and  in  the  course 
of  years  he  added  to  it  many  broad  acres  beyond  that  circle 
of  green  hills.  They  were  a  kind-hearted,  upright,  rigidly 
honest  race,  somewhat  opinionated  perhaps,  but  respected  by 
all  men  ;  and  thus  three  generations  went  down  to  the  grave, 
leaving  Adam,  the  grandfather  of  little  Mercy,  the  sole  heritor 
of  the  name  and  estate.  He  was  very  young  when  his  father 
died,  but  so  truly  did  his  mother  train  him  in  the  ways  of  those 
who  had  gone  before,  that,  when  the  revolutionary  war  broke 
out,  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  spirit  of  old  Adam  of  Ely  still 
breathed  in  the  breast  of  his  descendant.  He  joined  the 
troops,  where  his  cool  bravery,  his  instinctive  military  skill 
and  intelligence,  coupled  with  his  unswerving  integrity,  soon 
won  him  a  commission.  When  the  unrighteous  strife  ceased, 
he  returned  to  his  neglected  estate,  poorer  by  hundreds  in 
piu^e,  but  rich  in  the  love  and  esteem  of  his  fellow-officers, 
and  the  admiration  and  reverence  of  his  townsmen.  Most  of 
what  was  called  the  "  Outside  Land,"  which  lay  without  the 


THE   MILLER.  237 

hills,  was  sold  to  pay  off  debts  contracted  during  the  war,  but 
the  Hollow  remained,  and  he  diligently  set  himself  to  repair- 
ing the  inroads  made  upon  it  by  so  many  years  of  neglect. 
This  done,  he  became  more  and  more  conscious  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  old  farm-house,  for  his  mother  had  lived  barely 
long  enough  to  welcome  him  home.  He  was  still  in  the  prime 
of  life,  and  with  his  high  character  and  military  fame,  which 
was  something  more  than  a  prestige  in  those  days,  he  might 
have  chosen  a  bride  from  any  of  the  wealthy  families  of  his 
acquaintance,  with  a  dower  sufficient  to  have  repaired  his 
shattered  fortunes ;  but  he  passed  by  them  all,  and,  seeking 
out  Mercy  Lindsay,  his  early  playmate  in  the  humble  farm- 
house, where  since  the  death  of  her  friends  she  had  won  her 
daily  bread  by  the  labor  of  her  own  hands,  he  took  her  to  his 
bosom  as  his  wife,  companion  and  friend.  They  had  but  one 
child,  and  for  several  years  this  green  earth  contained  no  hap- 
pier family  than  the  one  at  Ward's  Hollow.  James  was  an 
active,  spirited  boy,  and,  as  he  grew  older,  the  green  valley 
became  too  narrow  for  him.  He  longed  to  go  out  and  mingle 
with  the  great  current  of  life,  and  all  that  his  father  told  him 
of  his  own  experience  there  only  increased  his  longing.  It 
was  a  sad  thing  to  his  parents  when  they  became  convinced 
that  a  quiet  agricultural  life  would  never  content  him ;  but 
they  were  too  wise  to  force  upon  him  an  occupation  which  he 
so  thoroughly  disliked ;  therefore  they  procured  him  a  situa- 
tion as  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house  in  the  neighboring  city,  in 
which,  after  two  or  three  years'  service  in  that  capacity,  he 
became  a  partner. 

For  some  years  all  seemed  to  go  well.  He  married  a  pleas- 
ant, excellent  girl,  and  two  children  were  welcomed  as  a  veri- 
table gift  from  God  by  them,  and,  most  especially,  by  the  soli- 
tary old  couple  at  the  Hollow.  These  children  spent  much  of 
their  time  there,  and  their  presence  seemed  to  lead  the  grand- 
parents back  on  the  track  of  their  youth.  It  was  pleasant  to 
see  little  Adam  imitating  the  erect,  military  bearing  of  his 


238          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

grandfather,  or  going  through  with  the  evolutions  of  the  drill, 
while  the  old  soldier  gave  out  the  word  of  command.  Then 
his  epaulets,  cocked  hat  and  sword,  preserved  with  such  fond 
care,  were  a  never-ending  subject  of  interest  to  them.  How 
many  times  the  little  boy  looked  at  that  tarnished  cockade 
and  faded  plume,  and  wondered  when  he  should  be  big  enough 
to  wear  a  hat  like  that ! 

Though  Adam  Ward  had  not  passed  through  those  years 
of  military  service  without  knowing  pinching  hunger  and  sore 
fatigue,  yet  he  knew  little  of  those  bitter  sorrows  which  touch 
the  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  Providence,  in  its  wisdom,  had 
reserved  this  experience  for  his  age.  A  malignant  fever, 
which  passed  like  a  scourge  through  the  city,  numbered  James 
and  his  little  boy  among  its  first  victims  ;  and  so  sudden  was 
the  blow,  that  it  was  not  until  long  after  he  had  seen  them 
laid  down  by  the  side  of  the  son  of  the  old  Cromwellian  in  the 
village  grave-yard,  that  he  could  realize  its  truth.  His  was 
not  a  grief  to  find  vent  in  words ;  like  his  love,  it  was  deep, 
silent  and  strong,  and  there  came  many,  many  weary  hours,  in 
which  he  was  ready  to  exclaim,  with  Syrian  Job,  "  He  hath 
stripped  me  of  my  glory  and  taken  the  crown  from  my  head ; 
my  hope  hath  he  removed  like  a  tree."  The  sudden  an- 
nouncement of  the  bankruptcy  of  the  firm  of  which  his  son 
had  been  a  partner  was  scarcely  able  to  rouse  him  from  this 
mood ;  but  when  it  was  found  that  there  was  strong  reason 
for  suspecting  the  honesty  of  the  other  partner,  indignation 
and  contempt  came  to  his  aid.  But  this  was  not  the  worst. 
Not  only  the  cash  capital  which  he  had  advanced  for  his  son 
was  swallowed  up,  but  examination  proved  that  they  had  used 
his  name  for  an  amount  which  his  whole  estate  would  barely 
cover.  He  knew  that  this  was  unjust,  and  appealed  to  the 
law  ;  but  it  was  proved  that  on  one  or  two  occasions  he  had, 
in  the  negotiation  of  some  small  sum,  given  them  liberty  to 
use  his  name,  and  the  case  went  against  him.  None  save 
those  whose  lives  are  passed  in  some  quiet  nook  in  the  green 


TELE   MILLER.  239 

country,  on  acres  that  have  descended  to  them  through  many 
generations,  can  form  a  true  conception  of  the  old  man's  grief 
when  called  upon  to  part  with  his  farm.  Those  fields  were  a 
family  biography.  Each  tree,  shrub,  rock,  brook,  fence  and 
gate,  were  so  many  chapters  of  it,  and  well  he  understood 
their  language.  0,  it  was  a  bitter  trial  to  that  white-haired 
old  man  !  Not  the  less  so,  that  these  beloved  fields  were  to 
pass  into  the  possession  of  one  who  had  never  been  known  to 
manifest  anything  like  sorrow  or  sympathy  for  others ;  one  for 
whose  character  he  felt  a  strong  dislike,  not  to  say  contempt. 
But  what  cared  Miller  Jed  for  old  Adam  Ward's  misfortunes 
or  opinions,  when  he  saw  before  him  the  prospect  of  grasping 
at  one  clutch  the  green  meadows  and  fine  pastures  of  the  Hol- 
low ?  He  had  had  his  lynx-eye  upon  it  for  years ;  he  had 
counted  over  and  over  how  much  more  it  might  be  made  to 
yield  than  it  did  under  the  old-fashioned  system  of  agricul- 
ture pursued  by  its  ancient  owners ;  he  counted  much  on 
James'  inexperience,  and  chuckled  inwardly  when  he  went 
into  a  store  ;  then  he  began  to  mine  in  the  dark,  like  one  of 
the  rats  of  his  own  mill ;  he  watched  all  the  movements  of 
the  firm,  and,  when  he  found  them  pressed  for  funds,  had  his 
agents  ready  to  lend  on  old  Adam  Ward's  security ;  and 
should  he  forego  his  long-cherished  plan,  for  the  sake  of  prov- 
ing himself  a  kind  neighbor  ?  Not  he ;  he  would  "  have  his 
bond." 

There  was  one  alternative  for  the  old  soldier ;  he  might 
mortgage  Uis  acres  for  a  sum  sufficient  to  pay  off  the  debt, 
and  many  of  his  old  friends  advised  him  to  this  course.  But 
his  independent  spirit  could  not  brook  this ;  he  had  been  a 
free  man  all  his  life,  and  would  not  consent,  in  his  old  age,  to 
become  a  servant ;  therefore,  he  let  it  all  go,  all  but  the  old  • 
house  and  a  bit  of  meadow  on  which  it  stood.  Still  the  fields 
retained  their  old  name ;  for,  like  the  excellent  qualities  of  the 
ancient  owners,  it  was  too  strongly  associated  with  the  settle- 
ment and  history  of  the  village  to  be  easily  relinquished.  At 


240         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

the  time  of  the  commencement  of  this  story,  the  old  captain's 
wife  had  been  laid  by  the  side  of  her  son,  and  James'  widow 
and  little  daughter,  to  whom  poverty  had  left  no  other  shelter 
since  the  death  of  the  husband  and  father,  continued  to  reside 
with  the  old  man,  and  the  industry  and  good  management  of 
the  former  did  much  towards  lengthening  out  the  old  soldier's 
pension,  while  the  scrupulous  care  with  which  she  sought  to 
keep  everything  about  the  house  as  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  see  it  from  his  youth,  and  the  reverence  and  respect  with 
which  she  treated  him,  made  her  well  worthy  of  the  daughter's 
place  which  she  held  in  his  heart.  Little  Mercy,  —  how  dark 
that  old  house  would  have  been  without  her  !  —  was  a  sun- 
beam, a  hope  that  ever  went  before  them,  casting  a  serene 
light  on  their  otherwise  cloudy  future. 


CHAPTER    III. 

4 

"  Childhood,  with  sonny  brow, 
And  floating  hair." 

June,  with  her  rich,  vigorous  life,  and  thousand  musical 
voices,  revelled  in  Ward's  Hollow.  It  had  been  one  of  those 
"  heavenly  days  which  cannot  die,"  and  the  sun,  as  if  enam- 
ored of  earth  and  beauty,  lingered  on  the  western  hill-tops, 
while  his  level  rays  streamed  across  the  Hollow,  and  fell  on 
the  wooded  range  on  the  east,  like  a  baptism  of  fire.  The 
whole  beautiful  valley  was  like  an  enchanted  lake  filled  with 
waters  of  the  hue  of  burnished  gold,  through  which  the  white 
blossoms  of  the  daisies  looked  forth  like  stars.  The  evening 
meal  at  the  old  farm-house  was  over,  and  the  old  captain  sat 
in  his  great  arm-chair,  in  front  of  the  open  door,  gazing  over 
the  beautiful  scene  with  a  serene  countenance,  for,  in  submit- 
ting to  the  discipline  awarded  him,  he  had  learned  that  in 
transferring  the  title-deeds  of  his  estate  to  another,  he  had 
not  parted  with  his  inherent  right  to  its  beauty.  The  widow 


THE   MILLER.  241 

plied  her  needle  by  an  open  window,  through  which  the  faint 
west  wind  brought  the  rich  perfume  of  the  many  fragrant 
flowers  and  herbs,  that  a  century's  care  had  collected  in  the 
old  garden  beneath,  while  little  Mercy  sat  on  the  door-step ; 
that  low,  flat,  well-worn  stone  step,  with  its  edges  half  buried 
in  the  thick  turf,  constructing  various  chains  and  curls  from 
the  long  stalks  of  the  dandelions,  with  which  she  had  filled 
her  apron,  alternately  talking  to  her  grandfather  and  mocking 
a  whippoorwill,  that  nightly  poured  forth  his  plaintive  strain 
from  the  hedge  behind  the  house.  Suddenly  she  threw  aside 
her  work,  and,  turning  to  the  old  man,  said  : 

"  Grandfather,  that  little  boy  wants  to  go  to  school  with 
me,  and  I  shall  like  it  very  much.  His  mother,  or  the 
woman  that  he  lives  with,  asked  us  to-night  if  I  might  not  stop 
for  him  every  day." 

"  And  what  boys  do  you  know,  I  should  like  to  ask  ?  " 
replied  the  old  man,  laying  his  great  hand  on  her  shining 
hair. 

"  Why,  Isaac  —  he  said  his  name  was  Isaac.  Isaac , 

the  boy  that  lives  in  the  house  by  the  mill." 

Something  like  an  expression  of  pain  passed  over  the  grand- 
fathers face,  as  he  turned  to  her  mother,  and  asked : 

"  What  is  this,  Jane  ?  Does  she  mean  Jedediah  Sewall's 
child?" 

"  Yes,  father ;  I  should  have  spoken  to  you  about  it  when 
we  came  home,  but  you  was  busy  in  the  garden  ;  besides,"  she 
added,  with  a  glance  at  Mercy,  "  I  did  not  know  but  we  had 
better  wait  until  we  were  alone." 

Jane  Ward  was  unwilling  to  have  her  child  catch  aught  of 
that  bitterness  of  spirit  which  she  and  her  father  could  not 
help  feeling  at  the  name  of  Miller  Jed — a  name  which,  as  if  by 
common  consent,  was  seldom  or  never  mentioned  at  the  old 
farm-house. 

The  old  man  understood  her  motive,  ard,  sending  Mercy 
21 


242         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

off  on  some  slight  errand,  listened  with  compressed  lips  to  the 
miller's  request,  made  known  by  the  old  housekeeper. 

"  Have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  Jane  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
hastily,  as  she  ceased  speaking. 

41  Such  was  my  first  thought,"  she  replied ;  "  but  the  little 
boy  plead  so  hard,  that  I  could  hardly  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
refuse  him." 

44  Ay,  a  double-faced  imp,  like  his  father,  I  dare  say.  Let 
the  children  remain  strangers.  No  good  ever  did  or  can  come 
from  knowing  any  of  that  race." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  father.  But,  after  all,"  she 
added,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  the  poor  child  must  not  be 
blamed  for  his  father's  faults ;  and,  when  I  think  of  him,  with 
no  one  to  care  for  him  but  that  hard-hearted,  selfish  old  man, 
I  cannot  help  pitying  him.  Somehow,  he  reminded  me  of  our 
little  Adam." 

The  old  man  arose  and  walked  the  floor  for  some  moments ; 
at  length  he  paused  before  the  window,  and  said  : 

44  And  you  think  we  might  possibly  do  something  towards 
making  this  child  a  better  man  than  his  father.  Is  it  not  so, 
Jane  ?  "  he  added,  with  a  sad  smile. 

44  We  could  try,  father,"  was  the  reply. 

44  Well,  you  may  be  right,  but  I  have  little  faith.  I  have 
known  Jed  Sewall,  man  and  boy,  for  sixty  years,  and  I  never 
knew  him  otherwise  than  mean,  grasping  and  underhanded. 
But,  as  you  say,  his  child  is  motherless ;  and,  as  Mercy  will 
have  to  associate  with  him,  if  he  attends' school,  you  can  try. 
Let  her  wait  for  him  at  the  bars,  for  on  no  account  would  I 
have  her  enter  his  house." 

It  mattered  little  to  Miller  Jed  in  what  spirit  a  favor  was 
granted,  so  long  as  he  was  sure  of  it ;  therefore  he  hardly 
listened  to  the  condition  attached  to  this.  In  fact,  he  was 
quite  willing  Mercy  should  keep  out  of  his  house,  for  who 
knew  what  mischief  Isaac  and  she  might  not  commit  thero 
together  ? 


THE  MILLER.  243 

Thus  the  children  became  schoolmates,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  their  little  fingers  began  to  smooth  the  tangled  skein 
of  life  between  the  two  families,  at  least,  as  far  as  Isaac  was 
concerned.  He  often  waited  on  the  flat  stone  by  the  bars, 
until  Mercy's  friends  came  to  meet  her ;  and,  perhaps,  as  with 
Jane  Ward,  the  memory  of  little  Adam  pleacl  in  the  old 
soldier's  heart  for  the  child,  quite  as  much  as  his  own  ingenu- 
ous face  and  winning  manners ;  at  any  rate,  the  old  man's 
prejudice  wore  slowly  away ;  and,  as  the  weeks  passed  on, 
Isaac  became  not  only  a  frequent  but  a  welcome  guest  at  the 
Hollow,  though,  in  obedience  to  her  grandfather's  command, 
Mercy's  foot  had  never  crossed  his  father's  threshold. 

And  with  this  arrangement  Miller  Jed  was  content ;  for, 
with  all  his  contempt  of  the  Wards,  and  what  he  termed  their 
bad  management,  he  could  not  escape  feeling  a  kind  of  respect 
for  them ;  besides,  if  the  boy  was  there,  he  would  be  out  of 
mischief  at  home. 

It  was  not  often  that  the  shrewd  old  miller  had  recourse  to 
the  law ;  but  when  Isaac  was  about  fifteen  years  old,  finding 
the  validity  of  certain  mortgages  in  his  possession  questioned, 
he  placed  the  business  in  the  hands  of  an  attorney.  .  The  case 
was  decided  against  him ;  and  so  exasperated  was  he  by  the 
loss,  and  the  round  fees  demanded  by  his  lawyer,  that  he 
Swore  henceforth  he  would  have  a  lawyer  of  his  own.  He 
had  one  son,  and  he  should  be  a  lawyer.  Like  all  people 
with  only  one  idea  in  their  heads,  this  became  a  mania  with 
him.  True,  it  would  cost  a  sight  of  money  to  educate  him, 
but  then  Isaac  would  get  it  all  back.  Lawyers  could  not  only 
look  sharp  after  their  own  property,  but  their  very  words 
were  gold.  Miller  Jed  retained  a  very  vivid  memory  of  the 

sum  he  had  paid  into  the  hands  of  Squire  G ,  and  again 

and  again  he  computed  how  many  such  sums  he  would 
receive  in  a  year.  The  investment  would  bring  a  rare 
interest,  he  thought ;  therefore  Isaac  was  sent  away  to  school, 


244         LEAVES  FROM  TUB  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

preparatory  to  entering  on  a  course  of  law,  under  the  tuition 

of  the  somewhat  celebrated  Judge  G ,  of  L . 

It  never  occurred  to  him  to  consult  the  taste  of  his  child 
in  this  choice  of  an  occupation;  but,  happily,  Isaac  loved 
books  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  save  Mercy, 
whose  sweet  face  had  grown  to  be  a  most  rare  book  to  him 
ever  fresh  and  new ;  therefore  he  made  no  objection. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  Let  it  be  so.    The  barbarous  Scythian, 
Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbored,  pitied,  and  relieved, 
As  thou." 

Six  years  passed,  eager,  anxious,  bustling  years,  with 
Miller  Jed,  during  which  he  had,  spider-like,  put  forth  many 
a  cunningly-laid  thread  around  the  feet  of  needy  debtors, 
which  would  eventually  draw  them  within  his  clutches ;  then, 
the  simpletons!  if  they  made  any  outcry,  Isaac  would  be 
ready  to  deal  with  them.  In  company  with  such  thoughts  as 
these,  the  old  miser's  heart  seemed  growing  hard  as  his  nether 
millstone.  "With  the  family  at  the  Hollow  these  years  had 
gone  by  "  as  still  as  stars."  The  tall  figure  of  the  old  soldier 
was  still  unbent,  though  he  leaned  oftener  than  of  yore  on  his 
silver-headed  cane,  the  gift  of  a  brother  officer,  as  he  passed 
along  on  his  way  to  meeting  on  a  sunny  Sabbath.  A  few 
white  hairs  gleamed  upon  the  widow's  temples,  while  Mercy 
had  shot  up  tall  and  graceful  as  a  green  willow. 

They  had  counted  time  only  by  Isaac's  vacations ;  for  then 
the  Hollow  regained  the  old  golden  glow  of  sunshine,  some  of 
which,  it  seemed,  he  took  with  him  at  his  departure.  His 
vacations  were  mostly  spent  there,  for  his  own  home  seemed 
cheerless  and  uncomfortable.  Even  Widow  Barker's  kind 
old  wrinkled  face  failed  to  meet  him  at  last,  for  her  increas- 


THE    MILLEU.  245 

ing  infirmities  had  compelled  her  to  give  up  her  trust,  and  her 
place  was  occupied  by  a  stranger.  Though  his  father  felt  a 
kind  of  pride  in  him,  and  did  not  fail  to  manifest  toward  him 
that  kind  of  respect  which  ignorance  not  unfrequently  pays  to 
talent,  especially  talent  which  can  command  money,  not  a 
single  day  passed  in  which  the  son  did  not  feel,  with  a  trou- 
ble which  made  him  sick  at  heart,  the  meanness  and  selfish- 
ness of  his  father's  character.  Every  visit  home  deepened  this 
feeling,  and  served  to  convince  him  that  he  never  could  con- 
sent to  become  the  mean,  pettifogging  character  for  which  his 
father  designed  him.  Even  the  profession  itself  began  to 
grow  repulsive  to  him ;  and,  restless,  dissatisfied  and  unhappy, 
he  entered  upon  the  last  half-year  of  his  term. 

About  this  time  commenced  that  seemingly  new  movement 
in  the  life  of  the  churches  of  New  England,  known  under  the 
name  of  "  Revivals  of  Religion."  The  movement  soon  reached 

L ,  and  Isaac  and  his  fellow-students  were  numbered 

among  the  converts. 

Then,  how  different  seemed  life,  with  all  its  aims  and  ends 
stretching  into  eternity  !  If  his  father's  life  and  opinions 
looked  poor  and  contemptible  to  him  before,  what  were  they 
now,  in  the  light  of  his  newly-awakened  feelings  ?  How  wil- 
lingly would  he  have  laid  down  his  life  to  have  made  his  father 
conscious  of  their  wickedness  !  He  felt  that  he  must  see  it ; 
he  could  not  fail  to  do  so,  God's  law  was  so  plain.  He  would 
strive  with  him  as  never  yet  child  strove  with  a  father,  and 
then,  casting  aside  all  worldly  ambition,  joyfully  go  forth  as  a 
missionary,  to  speak  the  words  of  life  unto  the  suffering  mil- 
lions of  earth. 

Thus,  in  words  steeped  in  the  glowing  enthusiasm  of  his 
own  heart,  he  wrote  to  his  father  and  the  family  at  the  Hol- 
low ;  for,  though  the  close  of  his  term  wa?  near  at  hand,  his 
ardor  could  brook  no  delay. 

The  Wards  received  the  tidings  with  unfeigned  pleasure. 
They  felt  that  his  talents  were  much  better  adapted  to  the 
21* 


246          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

pulpit  than  the  bar,  and  they  rejoiced  in  the  consciousness 
that  their  teachings  and  influence  had  not  been  in  vain.  It 
was  not  so  with  Miller  Jed.  Not  until  he  had  read  the  letter 
over  three  times,  and  carefully  examined  the  handwriting, 
would  he  believe  that  he  was  not  the  object  of  some  hoaz. 
That  Isaac  should  really  think  of  opposing  his  will,  he  could 
not  comprehend. 

"Fool!"  he  muttered,  contemptuously ;  "does  he  think  I 
am  going  to  throw  away  so  much  money  on  a  poor  canting 
priest  ?  Ay,  I  see  it  all  now,"  he  continued,  suddenly  turn- 
ing pale  with  rage ;  "  this  is  old  Ward's  scheming.  He  thinks 
to  marry  his  grandchild  to  this  whining  fool,  and  so  regain 
his  estate.  I  '11  see  the  devil  have  them  all  first,  the  poverty- 
stricken  old  rascal !  He  called  me  cheat  once ;  we  '11  see  who 
will  cheat  or  be  cheated,  now.  I  '11  fix  matters  for  them !  " 
and  shutting  the  water-gate  with  a  violence  that  brought  the 
great  wheel  to  a  sudden  stand,  and  threw  the  glittering  water 
in  miniature  cascades  from  every  black  rib  of  its  skeleton 
frame,  he  settled  nis  white  hat  more  firmly  on  his  powdered 
head,  and  sped,  like  a  great  gray  moth,  through  the  shadowy 
forest,  toward  Ward's  Hollow. 

Had  the  prince  of  darkness  himself  suddenly  appeared  on 
the  threshold  of  that  old  farm-house,  his  appearance  would 
hardly  have  been  greeted  with  more  surprise.  The  old  sol- 
dier arose,  as  did  also  the  mother  and  daughter,  and  stood 
silent  from  astonishment.  But  they  did  not  wait  long,  for  the 
old  miller,  without  stopping  for  ceremony,  began  to  pour  forth 
such  a  torrent  of  anger,  invective,  and  furious  vituperation, 
as  those  old  walls  had  never  heard  before.  When  he  men- 
tioned the  name  of  Mercy,  in  connection  with  their  designs  on 
his  son,  the  hitherto  flushed  cheek  of  the  girl  grew  pale  as 
death,  and  she  clung  to  her  mother  for  support.  Not  so  with 
the  old  soldier ;  all  the  spirit  of  "  seventy-six  "  seemed  to  swell 
in  his  veins,  as  with  compressed  lips  he  listened  to  the  old 
miser's  tirade.  When  the  miller  was  fairly  out  of  breath,  he 


THE  MILLER.  247 

drew  up  his  tall,  stately  form  to  its  full  height,  and  said,  in  a 
voice  which  rung  with  the  strength  and  clearness  of  youth : 

"  Are  you  mad,  old  man  ?  /  seek  to  wed  one  of  my  race 
with  a  Sewall !  Do  you  know  of  whom  you  speak  —  or  what 
you  say  ?  Begone  !  "  he  added,  with  a  commanding  gesture 
towards  the  door ;  "  begone,  I  say,  and  pollute  neither  my 
house  nor  my  sight  any  longer !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  mien  and  tone  of  that  old  sol- 
dier, before  which  the  brazen  spirit  of  Miller  Jed  quailed. 
Thus  it  had  ever  been  in  all  their  intercourse ;  he  could  not 
help  feeling  it,  and  he  hated  him  so  much  the  more.  He 
withdrew  as  suddenly  and  as  silently  as  he  had  entered,  and, 
until  his  dusty  figure  was  quite  hidden  behind  the  hills,  not  a 
word  was  spoken  by  the  inmates  of  the  old  farm-house.  Then 
the  old  man  said,  thoughtfully  : 

"  My  children,  Isaac  Sewall  must  come  here  no  more.  I 
said  no  good  would  come  out  of  it,  at  first ;  and  it  seems  I  was 
right.  Pardon  me,  Jane,"  he  continued ;  "  I  am  over-hasty. 
Good  has  come  of  it.  Isaac  will  be  a  better,  wiser,  truer 
man,  for  the  teachings  he  has  received  from  you,  and  God  be 
praised  that  it  is  so !  Still,  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  see 
him  no  more.  It  will  be  a  sad  trial  to  him  and  to  us,  for 
somehow  the  boy  has  become  very  near  to  me ;  but  better 
bear  this,  than  the  slightest  suspicion  of  scheming  for-the  end 
of  which  that  old  man  spoke." 

As  usual,  they  questioned  not  his  wisdom,  nevertheless,  the 
heart  of  Jane  Ward  yearned  after  the  child  of  her  adoption, 
and  Mercy  sorrowed  deeply  but  silently,  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  him  no  more.  About  a  week  after  his  father's  visit 
to  the  Hollow,  Isaac,  with  a  heart  teeming  with  hope 
and  faith,  came  up  the  green  lane,  paused  a  few  moments  on 
the  flat  stone  by  the  bars,  where  he  had  first  met  with  Mercy, 
then  passed  on  to  his  father's  house.  Miller  Jed,  save  when 
under  the  influence  of  some  ungovernable  burst  of  anger,  was 
a  man  of  few  words.  He  had  decided  to  waste  no  breath 


248         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

upon  his  son's  whims,  for  he  had  one  argument,  of  the  potency 
of -which  he  had  not  the  slightest  doubt.  Therefore,  he  greeted 
him  in  his  usual  brief  way,  and  listened  in  dogged  silence 
while  Isaac  spoke  humbly,  but  eloquently,  of  the  change  in 
his  views,  and  of  his  hopes  and  wishes  for  the  future ;  and,  at 
his  usual  early  hour,  retired  to  his  bed  without  a  word  of  com- 
ment. The  young  man  found  hope  in  his  silence,  and  fer- 
vently thanked  God  for  disposing  his  father's  heart  to  listen 
favorably  to  his  request. 

The  next  morning,  instead  of  going  to  the  mill  as  usual,  the 
old  man  was  busy  for  some  time  in  his  own  room.  Presently 
he  called  for  Isaac  to  join  him,  and,  laying  before  him  upon  the 
table  a  great,  black  leathern  pocket-book,  stuffed  to  bursting 
with  papers  of  all  hues,  bade  him  see  whether  his  "  school 
larnin'  "  could  tell  how  much  those  papers  were  worth.  The 
spider-like  old  miller  seated  himself  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
and  kept  his  glittering  eyes  steadily  on  his  prey,  while  Isaac, 
pencil  in  hand,  examined  the  different  notes  and  mortgages, 
and  made  an  estimate  of  their  amount. 

"  Nine  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sixty  dollars,"  he  said 
at  length,  running  his  pencil  again  up  the  column  of  figure^ 
to  see  that  they  were  correct. 

"  Right,  nine  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sixty  dollars," 
repeat*!  the  old  spider ;  "  and  this  year's  interest  will  make 
it  a  trifle  over  ten  thousand.  A  pretty  nest-egg  that,  Isaac  ! 
I  wonder  if  any  minister  can  show  as  good  a  one?"  he  added, 
with  a  wily  glance  at  his  son,  as  with  his  crooked  fingers  he 
tenderly  replaced  the  papers  in  the  queer  old  receptacle. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  was  the  reply ;  "  they  are  men  who  live 
with  a  higher  aim  than  to  lay  up  treasures  on  earth.  Theirs 
is,  I  trust,  in  heaven." 

"  Ay,  I,  for  one,  am  pretty  sure  it  a'n't  here"  chuckled  the 
old  man ;  "  but  come,  boy,  I  want  you  to  go  up  the  hill  with  me." 

Carefully  placing  the  old  pocket-book  in  the  breast  pocket 
of  his  coat,  he  led  the  way  through  the  dewy  fields  in  silence. 


THE  MILLEK.  249 

When  they  reached  the  highest  point  of  the  ridge  that  over- 
looked Ward's  Hollow,  for  the  first  time  the  old  man  paused. 
It  was  a  beautiful  scene  that  lay  before  them.  On  the  east 
stretched  out  the  deep,  green  woods,  along  the  further  edge  of 
which  crept  the  winding  mill-stream,  until,  meeting  the  resist- 
ance of  the  heavy  dam,  its  waters  recoiled  upon  themselves, 
and  lay  spread  out  in  motionless  silence,  like  a  young  heart 
when  it  first  finds  its  love  and  trust  dishonored.  On_the  west 
lay  the  green  Hollow,  over  whose  rich  midsummer  beauty 
streamed  those  pensive  gleams  of  golden  light,  the  first  faint 
prophecy  of  autumn.  Isaac  gazed  abroad  with  a  full  heart. 
Like  that  heart,  nature  seemed  overflowing  with  love.  A 
benediction  seemed  to  breathe  forth  from  everything,  and  he 
blessed  God  for  life  —  ay,  even  for  breath.  He  thought  of 
Mercy, — of  his  silent  but  ever  deepening  love  for  her, — of  the 
time  when  he  might  fold  her  to  his  heart  as  the  crown  of  all 
blessings ;  then  a  rude  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
his  father's  shrill  tones  fell  upon  his  ears. 

"  It  is  a  goodly  bit,  boy.  From  the  red  hills  yonder  to  the 
river,  and  from  the  road  clean  away  up  to  Monroe's  Notch,  it 
is  mine ;  secured  by  good  warrantee  deeds  upon  record.  Ay, 
you  may  well  stare,"  he  continued,  seeing  Isaac's  vacant  look  ; 
"  it 's  not  many  men  that  can  show  a  farm  like  that,  worth 
good  five  thousand  dollars  to-day,  to  say  nothing  of  "the  mill, 
which  brings  in,  on  an  average,  two  hundred  a  year  more.  It 
took  a  long  head  to  get  all  this  property,  Isaac ;  it  will  take 
quite  as  long  a  one  to  keep  it.  I  have  spent  e'en-a-most  a 
thousand  dollars —  e'en-a-most  a  thousand — to  teach  you  how 
to  keep  it,  and  to  add  now  and  then  a  penny  to  it ;  for 
who  knows  how  much  more  I  might  have  got,  if  I  had  only 
known  enough  about  the  points  of  the  law  ?  You  do  know 
enough,  and  it  shall  be  yours ;  only,  mark  me,  boy,  I  must 
have  no  more  nonsense  about  priests ;  you  must  be  a  lawyer, 
—  a  rich  lawyer,  Isaac,  and  nothing  else." 

"  I  know  how  much  you  have  done  for  me,  father.  Believe 


250        LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

me,  I  am  not  ungrateful ;  but  do  not  drive  me  into  a  profes- 
sion in  which  I  know  I  shall  never  succeed.  I  don't  care  for 
money,  only  let  me  follow  the  way  which  my  conscience 
and"  — 

"  Don't  care  for  money !  "  screamed  the  old  miller,  aghast. 
"Are  you  mad,  or  a  fool,  or  both?  How  often  have  I  told 
you  that  a  man  could  succeed  in  anything,  if  .he  only  had 
money  enough  ?  " 

"  Father  !  fatter !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  much  agi- 
tated, "  would  that  I  could  persuade  you  that  there  is  some- 
thing better,  higher,  worthier  of  a  life's  devotion,  than  money 
It  is  God's  love  —  his  peace.  Has  not  Christ  himself  said, 
'  What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world, 
and  lose  his  own  soul ? '" 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  souls ! "  angrily  exclaimed  the 
father.  "  These  I  see  and  know,"  he  continued,  pointing  over 
the  rich  fields  he  called  his  own;  "  and  these"  he  added, 
striking  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  where  lay  the  swollen  pocket- 
book;  "  but  of  souls  you  nor  I  know  nothing.  And  now,"  he 
went  on,  seeing  Isaac  about  io  speak,  "  I  can't  stand  parley- 
ing here.  Once  for  all,  are  you  going  to  obey  me  ?  Will 
you  be  a  lawyer,  or  not  ?  " 

The  young  man  moved  back  and  forth  hurriedly  for  a  few 
moments,  then,  with  one  glance  at  the  lovely  landscape  and 
the  blue  heavens,  he  fronted  his  father,  and  said,  sadly,  but 
firmly : 

"  Had  you  left  it  to  me,  father,  or  even  consulted  me,  I 
should  never  have  chosen  the  profession  of  law.  Not  that  it 
is  not  honorable  and  great  —  even  sublime  in  its  principles 
and  aims ;  but  our  views  of  it  are  widely  different.  Were  I 
to  follow  it,  you  would  be  sadly  disappointed,  for  never  would 
I  consent  to  advocate  a  cause  I  knew  to  be  wrong ;  never 
would  I  stoop  to  become  the  instrument  of  oppression  and 
injustice.  When  I  think  how  some  of  these  very  lands  have 
been  won,  I  cannot,  dare  not,  obey  you." 


THE  MILLER.  251 

"  Damnation  !  "  exclaimed  the  father,  trembling  -with  dis- 
appointment and  anger.  "  Then  not  a  cent  shall  you  have  of 
mine,  to  save  you  from  the  poor-house.  Go,  and  my  curse  go 
with  you !  "  he  added,  as  he  sprang  hastily  down  the  hill-side. 

Isaac  sank  down  upon  a  shelving  rock,  and,  covering  his 
eyes  with  his  hands,  as  if  that  beautiful  scene  had  suddenly 
become  painful  to  him,  strove  to  collect  his  troubled  thoughts. 
It  was  a  fearful  moment.  All  his  past  life,  all  his  future 
hopes,  seemed  pressed  into  it,  and  he  could  only  bow  his  head, 
and,  in  the  anguish  of  his  spirit,  cry,  "  Our  Father ! "  As  if 
in  answer  to  that  prayer,  a  calmer  mood  came  to  bless  him/ 
He  carefully  scrutinized  all  the  circumstances  of  his  short 
life,  and  the  motives  that  had  led  him  to  renounce  a  course 
which  he  felt  could  only  be  to  him  a  death-in-life.  Then  came 
the  memory  of  his  old  nurse's  legends  of  the  early  martyrs, 
and  his  imagination  kindled.  "  He  that  loveth  father  or 
mother  more  than  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me,"  he  murmured,  as 
he  arose  and  slowly  took  the  way  toward  the  old  farm-house 
in  the  Hollow.  Just  as  he  entered  a  thicket  of  young  birch, 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  he  met  a  boy  with  a  fishing-rod  over 
his  shoulder,  who  placed  in  his  hands  a  letter,  saying,  old 
Captain  Ward  had  given  him  some  pennies  to  carry  it  to  the 
mill.  Isaac  knew  the  old  man's  habits ;  something  unusual 
must  have  occurred  to  rouse  him  to  the  effort  of  writing  a  let- 
ter, and,  with  a  foreboding  of  sorrow,  he  broke  the  seal.  It 
needed  little  skill  to  decipher  those  round,  regular  characters. 
There  they  stood,  plain  as  the  green  earth  beneath  him,  say- 
ing, in  kind  but  firm  words,  that  he  must  visit  the  Hollow  no 
more. 

"  Cursed  by  him,  and  through  him  !  "  murmured  the  young 
man,  as,  in  the  utter  loneliness  of  his  heart,  he  sank  upon  the 
half-decayed  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  No  one  knows,  no  one 
ever  can  know,  the  sorrow,  doubt,  agony  and  despair,  of 
the  succeeding  hours  of  that  glorious  mid-summer  day. 


252  LEAVES   FROM   THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

CHAPTER    V. 

"  Eyes  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised  ; 
And  lips  say,  «  God  be  pitiful,' 
Who  ne'er  said,  '  God  be  praised.'  " 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six  weeks  —  they  occupy  but  a 
little  space  on  our  paper,  yet  they  crawled  over  the  Hollow 
like  so  many  weary  years.  They  brought  sorrow  and  grief  to 
the  simple,  affectionate  hearts  there,  and,  were  we  writing  a 
mere  love-story,  we  might  tell  how  the  heart  of  Mercy  sank 
beneath  the  first  taste  of  life's  bitter  chalice. 

Six  weeks !  and  how  passed  they  at  the  mill  ?  We  only 
know  that  the  great  mill-wheel  dashed  round  and  round  as  of 
yore,  the  waters  moaned  and  sobbed,  while  Miller  Jed  con- 
tinued to  scrape  up  the  soft  meal  with  his  bent  fingers,  as  he 
occasionally  said  to  himself,  "  An  obstinate  dog ;  but  he  '11 
come  round  yet.  Poverty  is  a  rare  tamer." 

Then,  a  man  on  horseback  paused  in  the  whitened  atmos- 
phere at  the  mill  door,  and  delivered  him  a  letter. 

"  I  was  going  on  to  M ,  and  promised  our  minister  that 

I  would  come  this  way  and  deliver  that  letter,"  he  said.  "  It 's 
sorry  news,  I  reckon,  an'  you  be  his  father ; "  and,  with  a 
whistle  to  his  horse,  he  cantered  across  the  bridge  and  up  the 
hill. 

Miller  Jed  started  at  his  words,  and  stood  for  some  time 
turning  the  letter  over  and  over,  as  if  he  already  appre- 
hended its  contents.  Then,  suddenly  breaking  the  seal,  he 
took  them  in  at  a  glance. 

"  Fever  —  come  to  him  —  die  —  death,"  he  murmured,  as 
the  paper  shook  in  his  trembling  hands.  "  He  shall  not  die !  " 
he  exclaimed  vehemently,  as  he  hurriedly  stopped  the  wheel. 
"  He  cannot —  so  young,  and  " —  he  started  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder  in  fear.  A  few  drops  of  water  had  fallen  on  his 
hand,  and  he  thought  of  the  cold  damp  forehead  of  his  dead 
wife,  and  that  old  terror  seized  him. 


THE   MILLER. 

He  hurried  to  his  horse,  and,  with  the  meal  still  powdering 
his  gray  locks,  like  the  ashes  of  repentance,  mounted  his  sleek 
mare,  and  took  the  road  towards  L . 

Weary,  faint,  and  almost  despairing,  Isaac  Sewall  had 

reached  L ,  he  hardly  knew  how,  and,  presenting  himself 

before  Judge  G and  the  old  minister,  stated  all  his 

troubles,  and  besought  their  advice.  "I  am  homeless  —  an 
outcast ;  but  I  had  rather  die  than  become  the  mean,  petti- 
fogging character  for  which  my  father  designs  me,"  he  said, 
sadly. 

The  old  men  were  much  impressed  by  his  earnestness,  and 
through  their  influence  he  was  soon  engaged  as  assistant  in  a 
large  school  in  that  vicinity ;  but  he  had  hardly  entered  upon 
his  new  duties  before  he  was  seized  with  a  raging  fever. 

When  Miller  Jed  reached  L ,  the  disease  was  near  its 

crisis.  All  that  night  the  miserable  old  man  sat  crouched  in 
a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  scarcely  daring  to  look  upon  the 
face  of  his  child,  listening  to  his  ravings  and  low  moans,  with 
feelings  too  fearful  for  us  to  describe.  Sometimes  he  was 
with  his  fellow-students,  but  oftener  at  the  Hollow  with  Mercy ; 
and,  as  if  a  gleam  of  the  truth  still  reached  his  troubled 
brain,  he  would  moag  piteously,  "  0,  take  me  home !  Let 
me  see  her  once  more  !  " 

It  was  never  of  his  own  home,  but  of  the  Hollow,  that  he 
spoke,  and  only  once  his  fevered  lips  murmured  the  word 
"  Father."  The  very  tone  was  like  a  dagger  to  the  old  mil- 
ler's heart.  The  next  day  the  crisis  was  past,  and  the  phy- 
sicians spoke  of  hope,  though  the  old  man  scarcely  compre- 
hended their  words,  but  through  the  live-long  day  sat  silent 
in  the  same  place,  casting  fearful  glances  at  the  pale  attenu- 
ated figure  stretched  on  the  bed,  so  like  the  one  that  had  once 
lain  stiff  and  stark  in  his  own  house.  When  Isaac  -was  able 
to  look  up,  his  father's  presence  was  made  known  to  him,  and 
a  gleam  of  pleasure  lit  up  his  pale  face,  but  few  words  passed 
between  them,  and  neither  referred  to  the  past.  As  he  began 
22 


254         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TR££  IGDBASYL. 

to  gain  strength,  one  yearning  desire  took  possession  of  hia 
mind.  "  Only  let  me  go  home,  and  I  shall  be  well,"  he 
pleaded,  day  after  day,  until  the  kind-hearted  physician 
yielded  a  reluctant  consent.  An  easy  carriage  was  procured, 
and,  bolstered  up  with  beds  and  pillows,  Isaac  bade  farewell 
to  his  friends,  and,  at  a  snail-like  pace,  set  out  for  home. 

"  I  much  doubt  the  wisdom  of  this  step,"  said  the  old  min- 
ister as  the  carriage  disappeared  round  the  corner.  rt  It  is 
sixteen  miles  to  B ,  and  the  poor  child  is  very  weak." 

"  So  do  I,"  replied  the  physician,  with  a  sigh,  "  yet  it  can 
make  but  a  few  weeks'  difference,  at  the  worst."  Then  seeing 
the  minister's  inquiring  look,  he  added,  pointing  to  a  golden 
leaf  that  floated  slowly  toward  the  ground,  "our  young 
friend's  fate  is  like  that.  No  earthly  skill  can  change  it." 

When  the  carriage  reached  the  point  where  the  green  lane 
turned  off  to  the  Hollow,  Isaac  raised  his  eyes  imploringly  to 
his  father's  face,  and  made  a  faint  gesture,  as  if  he  would  go 
that  way.  Implicitly  the  old  man  obeyed,  and,  at  a  slow 
funereal-pace,  they  drove  on  to  the  old  farm-house.  The  sight 
of  the  carriage  brought  the  whole  household  to  the  door. 

" He  would  come"  said  the  old  miller,  as  if  in  apology,  as 
they  gathered  round  the  carriage.  . 

"  Yes,  grandfather,  mother,  Mercy,"  said  Isaac,  faintly,  as 
he  stretched  out  towards  them  his  thin  hands,  "  I  would 
come.  You  first  taught  me  how  to  live  —  you  must  now 
teach  me  how  to  die.  Forgive  me,  father,"  he  added,  laying 
his  hand  in  the  old  miller's,  "  they  can  care  for  me  better  here 
than  at  home,  and  you  will  come  to  see  me  daily." 

The  old  miller  looked  anxiously  toward  Adam  Ward.  "  If,'' 
he  murmured,  hesitatingly,  "  money  can  repay  you,  take  all  I 
have,  only  let  him  stay  —  only  save  him." 

"  Gladly  will  we  take  him  for  his  own  sake,"  replied  old 
Adam  Ward,  as  he  raised  the  poor  invalid  in  his  arms,  and, 
assisted  by  Jane,  bore  him  into  the  house. 

Those  pensive,  golden  gleams,  the  prophecy  of  autumn,  that 


THE   MILLER.  255 

slept  upon  the  hills  the  last  time  that  Isaac  Sewall's  feet  had 
trodden  them,  had  deepened  into  reality ;  and  slowly,  as  the 
leaves  changed  from  green  to  crimson,  and,  impelled  by  their 
own  weight,  floated  toward  earth,  so  waned  the  life  of  young 
Isaac  Sewall  toward  the  grave.  Loving  hands  tended  him, 
and  loving  hearts  lavished  their  wealth  of  tenderness  upon 
him,  and  he  was  serene  and  happy.  He  knew  it  was  much 
better  to  die  thus  than  to  go  through  life  cold,  selfish  and 
unloving.  And  he  was  happy  in  another  thought ;  for  all 
those  sunny,  autumn  days  his  old  father  sat  by  his  side,  some- 
times sobbing  like  a  very  child  as  he  spake  of  death  and 
heaven,  listening  humbly  and  earnestly  to  the  sacred  "Word  as 
it  fell  from  the  lips  of  Mercy,  —  words  which  he  had  heard  a 
thousand  times,  but  never  felt  before,  —  and  joining  with  un- 
feigned humility  in  the  petitions  which  Adam  Ward  raised 
daily  to  the  Father  of  all.  Yes,  Isaac  was  happy.  Only 
when  his  eye  rested  on  the  tear-dimmed  face  of  Mercy,  and 
his  ear  caught  the  sobs  which  she  could  not  wholly  repress, 
was  his  heart  troubled.  Then  he  would  take  her  hand,  and, 
drawing  her  cheek  down  to  his,  murmur : 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  sweet  dream,  beloved ;  but  a  little  while, 
only  a  little  while  at  the  longest,  and  we  shall  meet  again." 

In  the  mellow  light  of  an  October  day  they  laid  him  in  the 
village  grave-yard,  with  very  sorrowful  but  calm  feelings. 
The  perfect  quiet  of  his  last  moments  seemed  to  have  de- 
scended on  them,  especially  upon  the  old  miller.  Henceforth, 
to  him,  death  had  put  off  his  terrors.  The  thought  of  his 
child  seemed  ever  before  him  in  the  way  of  eternal  life. 
With  an  eager  hand  he  strove  to  repair  the  sorrow  which  his 
grasping  selfishness  had  caused,  and  most  gladly  would  he 
have  deeded  back  to  Adam  Ward  his  ancient  inheritance; 
but  the  independent  spirit  of  the  old  soldier  would  not  permit 
this.  He  declined,  saying : 

"  Do  what  you  please  for  my  children  ;  but,  for  me,  I  have 
about  done  with  the  cares  of  earth." 


256  LEAVES  1'ROM   1'HE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Therefore,  though  no  deeds  witnessed  the  transfer  of  the 
estate  back  to  the  Wards,  the  wealth  of  the  old  miller  flowed 
in  many  an  open  and  secret  channel  around  their  lives; 
channels  opened  by  death.  And,  for  many  years  afterward, 
two  old  men  might  often  be  seen,  seated  like  brothers  near 
the  open  door  of  the  old  farm-house,  while  the  golden  sun- 
light rested  like  a  glory  from  the  celestial  world  on  their 
hoary  looks,  speaking  earnestly  and  hopefully  of  the  life  to 
come. 


VII. 
AN  HOUR  ON  THE  CROSSING  POLE. 


CHAPTER     I. 

"  WHAT  a  pleasant  old  lady !  "  exclaimed  Kate  Lee,  as  we 
turned  from  the  door  of  Mrs.  S .  "  How  kind  and^  agree- 
able she  is,  and  her  face  is  so  calm  and  serene  —  so  handsome ! 

Surely,  Miss  R ,  she  must  have  escaped  all  the  trials  and 

sorrows  which  you  wise  people  say  are  a  part  of  life,  though 
I  am  sure  I  do  not  see  why  it  need  be  so." 

"  Look  here,  Kate,"  I  returned,  pausing,  and  placing  my 
hand  on  the  bole  of  one  of  the  young  shade-trees  that  lined 
the  walk.  "  Is  not  this  bark  very  smooth  and  fresh  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  it  feels  like  silk,  while  that  above  and  below  is 
dark  and  rough.  Why  is  it  so,  Miss  R ?  " 

"  Two  years  ago,  the  bark  was  nearly  stripped  from  the 
tree  in  this  place ;  but  you  see  it  is  quite  healed  over,  so  that 
none  but  a  close  observer  would  "detect  the  place  of  the  wound. 
It  is  so  in  life,  Kate  ;  a  serene,  calm  look,  like  that  of  Grand- 
mother S ,  is  often  the  badge  of  victory  won  over  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow." 

We  walked  on  in  silence  until  we  reached  a  mossy  pole, 
that  spanned  the  noisy  mountain  brook  which  we  must  cross 
in  our  way  home. 

This  pole,  shaded  by  ancient  button-woods,  whose  roots  were 
half  unearthed  by  the  busy  stream,  was  a  favorite  resting- 
place  with  me ;  and,  as  we  seated  ourselves,  Ellen  Ashton, 
our  thoughtful  young  companion,  spoke  for  the  first  time  sinea 
•we  bade  good-by  to  our  venerable  friend. 
22* 


258          LEAVES  FROM  TUB  TREE  IQDRASTL. 

"  Will  you  tell  us  more  about  Grandmother  S ,  as  you 

all  call  her,  Miss  K ?  Why,  she  islike  the  wounded  tree ; 

for,  notwithstanding  her  face  is  so  calm  and  serene,  as  Kate 
says,  so  like  those  faces  I  sometimes  picture  to  myself  among 
the  clouds  at  sunset,  and  her  ways  are  so  cheerful  and  social, 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  ehe  has  been  sad,  very  sad,  some 
time  in  her  life." 

"  Now,  that  is  just  like  you,  Ellen,"  began  Kate,  "  always 
fancying  romances,  when  I  see  nothing  but  very  plain  matter- 
of-fact  people,  who  eat  and  drink,  go  to  bed  and  get  up,  after 
the  same  old  humdrum  fashion.  Not  that  I  would  apply  that 

epithet  to  Grandmother  S ,  for  there  is  nothing  humdrum 

about  her  —  nothing  sad  or  gloomy  —  nothing  "  — 

"  0,  no !  I  don't  mean  that  she  is  gloomy,"  interrupted 
Ellen.  "  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  express  what  I  do  mean," 
she  continued,  after  a  pause ;  "  but  it  is  a  certain  something 
in  her  eyes.  I  have  seen  the  same  look  in  sister  Jane's  eyes 
ever  since  her  husband  was  lost  at  sea ;  especially  when  she 
stands,  as  she  sometimes  does,  for  a  long  time,  gazing  on  his 
portrait.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  Grandmother  S sees  por- 
traits in  the  air,  sometimes." 

"  Perhaps  she  does,  Ellen,"  I  began ;  but  at  that  moment 
Kate,  who  was  as  thoughtless  and  as  graceful  as  the  stream 
at  our  feet,  suddenly  whisked  a  long  branch  of  willow,  which 
she  had  been  idly  floating  in  the  water,  over  our  heads,  and, 
unmindful  of  the  shower-bath  she  was  giving  us,  exclaimed : 

"  Look,  Ellen,  look !  What  a  funny  old  buiHing!  Why, 
the  roof  runs  completely  down  to  the  ground  behind !  I  won- 
der where  the  back-door  was;  and  the  chimney  —  see,  it  is 
large  enough  for  a  house  of  itself.  What  was  it,  Miss 
E, ;  a  house,  or  a  fort,  or  a  jail  ?  " 

As  both  my  young  friends  were  natives  of  the  city,  and 
this  was  the  first  time  they  had  ever  got  beyond  the  suburban 
villas  which  they  call  country,  into  a  real  agricultural  district, 
I  did  not  so  much  wonder-  at  their  curiosity  concerning  an 


AN   HOUR  ON  THE  CROSSING  POLE.  259 

old-fashioned  farm-house,  then  little  better  than  a  ruin, 
whose  timbers  had  been  laid  -nearly  a  century  and  a  half 
before. 

"  It  is,  or  rather  was,  a  dwelling-house,  Kate.  Several 
generations  lived  and  died  beneath  its  roof;  and  not  a  few 
young  maidens,  fair  and  merry  as  yourself,  have  gone  forth 
over  that  old  threshold  to  gather,  the  parti-colored  sheaf  of  life 
in  other  and  brighter  fields.  Of  one  of  these  I  may  some 
tune  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"0,  tell  us  now !  Pray  tell  us  now ! "  they  cried  in  a 
breath. 

Yielding  to  their  request,  I  began :  "  Sixty -five  years 
ago"  — 

"  Mercy,  what  an  age !  "  interrupted  Kate,  drawing  a  long 

breath.  "  Are  you  sure  you  are  awake,  Miss  R ?  Why, 

it  troubles  me  to  think  of  it." 

"  You  will  find  that  trouble  diminish  as  the  years  go  on, 
chatterbox,"  I  replied,  as  I  again  took  up  my  broken  sentence. 

"  Sixty-five  years  ago,  every  room  in  that  old  house,  even 
the  great  yard  around  it,  was  busy  with  the  stir  of  life.  Half 
a  dozen  or  more  negroes  (for  Connecticut  had  not  then  thrown 
off  the  curse  of  slavery),  their  black  faces  and  white  teeth 
glittering  in  the  clear  sunlight  of  a  May  morning,  were  passing 
from  the  stables  to  the  street,  leading  horses,  with  saddles, 
side-saddles,  and  pillions,  duly  arranged ;  for  that  was  not  the 
day  of  wagons,  though  there  were  two  or  three  clumsy-looking 
covered  vehicles,  called  chaises,  in  those  days,  that  not  only 
attested  the  wealth  and  rank  of  their  owners,  but  whose  har- 
nesses seemed  a  sore  puzzle  to  the  grinning  blacks.  At  last, 
two  fine-spirited  animals  were  led  out  to  the  massive  old 
"horse-block,  and  held  as  quietly  as  possible  by  the  attendants. 

"  They  did  not  wait  long,  for  soon,  over  that  old  threshold, 
came  a  young  girl,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  handsome,  athletic- 
looking  youth,  on  whose  open,  manly  features  sorrow  seemed 
struggling  with  joy.  After  them  came  two  gray-headed 


260         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASTL. 

couples,  followed  by  a  whole  troop  of  relatives  and  friends,  of 
all  ages.  The  maiden's  face  was  hidden  by  a  veil ;  but,  as 
she  turned  it  aside  to  take  one  more  look  at  the  home  of  her 
childhood  and  the  dear  faces  clustered  round  her,  one  could 
see  that  it  was  beautiful  —  fresh  and  beautiful  as  that  bright 
May  morning,  and  as  dewy  with  tears  —  tears  which  again 
flowed  rapidly,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  suppress  them,  as, 
with  her  hand  clasped  close  in  that  of  her  companion,  she 
bowed  her  head  to  receive  the  parting  blessing  of  their 
parents,  and  the  last  good-by  of  those  who  had  been  her  friends 
from  childhood. 

"  Then,  her  brother's  stout  arm  encircled  her,  and,  with 
one  kiss  on  her  cheek,  he  placed  her  in  her  saddle.  Her  com- 
panion sprang  lightly  into  his,  and,  at  a  quick  pace,  without 
trusting  themselves  to  look  back,  they  crossed  the  same  brawl- 
ing brook,  and  took  the  road  yonder,  where  it  winds  towards 
the  west. 

"  The  group  remained  in  the  yard,  watching  them  until 
they  saw  them  turn  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  there,  and  wave 
a  last  farewell;  then,  the  elder  guests  gathered  round  the 
parents,  to  speak  a  few  words  of  cheer  ere  they  departed  for 
their  homes.  The  younger  ones  grouped  around  the  old  porch, 
and  discussed  the  wedding  which  took  place  the  evening  before ; 
and  the  children  ran  in  and  out,  with  huge  pieces  of  cake  in 
their  hands,  supplied  from  the  liberal  store  of  black  Time,  the 
head  female  slave. 

"  It  was  agreed  among  the  elder  guests  that  James  Sher- 
man was  an  intelligent,  steady,  industrious  fellow,  who  was 
sure  of  making  his  way  in  the  world  anywhere,  especially  in 
that  western  world  for  which  he  had  just  started  with  his 
young  bride ;  and  many  were  the  flattering  prophecies  uttered 
with  regard  to  his  future  success  and  position  in  that  unsettled 
section,  to  all  of  which  the  bride's  mother  lent  a  willing  ear, 
while  her  heart  murmured,  '  Poor  Mary  ! '  The  younger  rnes 
were  not  the  less  unanimous  in  deciding  that  it  was  a  capital 


AN   HOUR   ON   THE   CROSSING   POLE.  261 

match  —  that  they  were  the  finest-looking  couple  they  had 
seen  for  many  a  day  —  that  the  bride's  dress  was  beautiful  — 
that  her  gray-coating  riding-dress  and  round  beaver  hat  were 
very  becoming  and  '  just  the  thing '  for  her  journey ;  but, 
after  all,  it  was  a  kind  of  wonder  to  them  how  Mary  Burgiss 
could  ever  consent  to  go  '  clear  away  off  to  the  Whitestown 
country  '  (as  they  called  the  settlement  of  old  Judge  White, 
in  central  New  York),  to  live  among  bears,  and  wolves,  and 
those  horrible  Indians ;  and,  as  he  listened  to  their  words, 
and  recalled  some  of  the  fearful  tales  of  frontier  life  which  he 
had  heard,  a  dampness  gathered  upon  the  stout  brother's  eye- 
lashes, and  he,  too,  murmured,  '  Poor  Mary  ! ' 

"  Then  the  guests  mounted  their  horses,  and  turned  chatting 
to  their  homes ;  and  an  hour  later  all  was  as  quiet  as  usual 
in  and  around  yon  old  farm-house." 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  In  an  open  glade,  formed  partly  by  nature  and  partly  by 
the  woodman's  aze,  in  the  heart  of  the  solemn  old  forest 
that,  little  more  than  a  half-century  ago,  covered  the  rich 
swells  and  luxuriant  vales  of  what  is  now  Herkimer  county, 
New  York,  stood  a  comfortable-looking  log-house. 

"  All  around,  for  miles  and  miles  away,  stretched  that  bil- 
lowy sea  of  forest-leaves,  and,  save  by  a  narrow  foot-path 
that  led  from  the  cabin-door  across  the  clearing,  and  was  lost 
in  the  forest  on  the  side  towards  the  nearest  settlement,  the 
dwellers  in  that  solitary  place  seemed  to  be  entirely  shut  off 
from  communication  with  the  bustling,  busy  world. 

"  Everything  about  the  clearing  gave  evidence  of  the  thrift 
and  activity  of  the  owner,  and  rude  and  rough  as  was  the 
exterior  of  the  dwelling,  indications  were  not  wanting  to  show 
that  the  hand  of  taste  had  been  busy  there  also.  The  great 
logs  that  formed  the  sides  were  half  covered  by  the  luxuriant 
branches  of  the  wild,  creeping  roses,  while  around  the  win- 


262         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDBASYL. 

dow  aid  over  the  low  door-way,  the  gay,  flowering  bean  and 
the  home-like  morning-glory  mingled  their  scarlet  and  purple 
blossoms;  and  in  the  carefully-weeded  bed,  beneath  the 
eaves,  were  a  tribe  of  hollyhocks,  marigolds,  four-o'clocks, 
bachelor's-buttons  (you  know  I  like  the  old-fashioned  names, 
girls),  pansies  and  pinks,  mingled  with  rue,  hyssop,  worm- 
wood, sage  and  fennel  —  every  leaf,  every  blossom  of  which 
was  as  dear  as  the  face  of  a  friend  to  the  heart  of  her  who 
tended  them,  because  so  full  of  sweet  memories  of  that  home 
where  the  seed  from  which  they  sprung  had  been  ripened  and 
gathered,  far  away  amid  the  rock-bound  vales  of  Connecti- 
cut. Such  had  been  the  aspect  of  the  place  through  the  long 
summer  hours ;  but,  at  the  time  of  which  we  wish  to  speak, 
the  frosty  breath  of  autumn  had  withered  this  wealth  %of 
greenery,  and  the  long,  brown  trailers  of  the  bean  and  morn- 
ing-glory swung  mournfully  in  the  breeze. 

"  The  glorious  days  of  the  Indian  summer,  during  which 
the  mighty  forest  had  been  as  a  sea  of  flame,  almost  too  daz- 
zling to  behold,  were  already  gone,  and  the  cold,  raw,  whis- 
tling winds  of  November  began  to  moan  and  whine  around 
that  lonely  cabin. 

"  It  was  at  the  close  of  one  of  these  leaden-hued  days  that 
a  woman  appeared  in  the  door-way  of  the  cottage,  and  gazed 
anxiously  down  the  footpath  where  it  disappeared  in  the  for- 
est. As  a  gust  of  wind  lifted  aside  the  checked  apron  which 
she  had'carelessly  thrown  over  her  head,  it  was  easy  to  recog- 
nize the  fine  features  of  Mary  Sherman.  Her  cheek  was  a 
shade  or  two  browner,  perhaps,  than  when  she  crossed  yon 
old  threshold  a  bride,  but  her  slender,  girlish  figure  had 
ripened  into  the  luxuriant  development  of  womanhood,  and 
there  was  an  abiding  light  in  her  dark  eyes,  so  serene,  deep 
and  tender,  that  one  felt  at  once  that  some  new  revelation  of 
life's  mysteries  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her. 

"More  than  once   she   appeared    in  the  door,   looking 


AN   HOUR   ON    THE   CROSSING   POLE.  263 

anxiously  into  the  dense  forest,  and  at  each  time  her  brow 
wore  a  deeper  shade  of  anxiety. 

"  Suddenly  her  practised  eye  caught  sight  of  a  well-known 
form  hurrying  along  the  narrow  path,  and,  with  a  flush  of 
joy  on  her  cheek,  and  Words  of  thanksgiving  upon  her  lips, 
she  sprang  forward  to  meet  her  husband. 

"  '  You  have  been  frightened,  Mary,'  he  said,  in  reply  to 
her  exclamation  of  delight,  as  he  threw  his  arm  over  her 
shoulders,  and  gazed  fondly  down  upon  her  upturned  face. 

" '  No ;  at  least  not  for  myself,  James,  but  for  you,'  she 
replied.  '  You  are  later  than  usual  —  later  than  you  prom- 
ised, and  you  know  there  have  been  rumors  of  a  party  of  hos- 
tile Indians  being  seen  in  the  neighborhood.' 

" '  But  they  were  twenty  miles  off,  if,  indeed,  any  were 
seen,  which  I  much  doubt.  Ned  Emmons  is  always  seeing 
Indians  behind  every  bush  and  stump.  You  would  make  a 
capital  frontier-man's  wife,  Mary,  if  you  could  only  forget 
other  folks  as  readily  as  you  do  yourself.  And  now,'  he  con- 
tinued, pausing  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  as  she  was 
about  to  raise  the  wooden  latch  to  their  door,  '  Whom  do  you 
think  I  have  seen  ? '  ' 

"  She  looked  up  into  his  animated  face  for  a  moment,  and, 
her  own  glowing  with  sudden  hope,  exclaimed : 

" '  Some  one  from  home,  is  it  not  ?  Brother  John  has 
come ! ' 

"  '  No ; '  and  the  glowing  light  began  to  pale  as  her  hus- 
band went  on.  '  You  will  have  to  guess  again,  Mary ;  but  I 
will  not  tease  you.  It  is  George  Allen ;  and  here,  see  what 
he  has  brought,'  he  added,  as  he  drew  from  the  deep  pocket 
of  his  hunting-jacket  a  great,  square  letter,  directed  in  the 
large,  round  characters  which  she  recognized  at  once  as  her 
father's  hand. 

"  '  A  letter !  0,  how  glad  I  am ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  And 
it  will  be  almost  as  good  as  seeing  John  to  see  George. 
Where  is  he?  Why  did  he  not  come  home  with  you ? ' 


264         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDBASTL. 

" '  He  only  arrived  this  noon,  and  his  cousins  would  not 
hear  of  his  coming  with  me  to-night,'  replied  the  husband,  as 
he  opened  the  door  and  set  the  butt  of  his  rifle  rather  heavily 
upon  the  floor. 

"'Hush!'  said  Mary, softly,  springing  across  the  room, 
and  laying  her  hand  on  a  clumsy  cradle,  evidently  the  work 
of  James'  jack-knife  and  saw,  while  she  began  to  murmur 
over  the  nestling  occupant  some  old  New  England  strain. 
James  Sherman  moved  stealthily  to  her  side ;  and  when,  after 
a  few  moments,  the  eyes  of  the  young  parents  met,  as  they 
lifted  them  from  the  face  of  their  first-born  child,  it -was  very 
evident  under  what  form  that  new  revelation  of  life's  mys- 
teries had  been  given  them. 

"  As  the  twilight  deepened  into  night,  the  wild  winds  woke 
in  the  forest  and  swept  in  fitful  gusts  across  the  clearing, 
driving  before  them  occasional  showers  of  sleet  and  rain,  rat- 
tling against  the  cabin  walls,  and  shaking  the  wooden  fasten- 
ings with  a  violence  that  threatened  their  security.  But 
James  Sherman,  confident  in  the  strength  of  the  good  sea- 
soned oak,  only  smiled  as  he  saw  his  wife  start  at  the  clamor 
of  the  baffled  winds,  and  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her  side, 
while  he  continued  to  speak  of  the  contents  of  the  welcome 
letter,  which  they  had  read  over  and  over  again,  and  of  his 
meeting  with  their  old  friend,  until  Mary  almost  forgot  to 
rock  the  cradle  at  her  side  in  the  interest  which  the  subject 
awakened. 

" « How  good  it  does  seem  to  get  a  letter  from  home  ! '  she 
said.  '  It  is  almost  like  seeing  them  every  one.  So  Grand- 
mother Fowler  is  gone  at  last  —  the  kind,  old  soul.  She 
spun  this  very  yarn  that  I  am  knitting ;  and  I  remember,  as 
well  as  if  it  had  happened  to-day,  what  she  said  when  she 
gave  it  to  me.  "  There,  child,"  she  said,  "  I  have  spun  a 
double  portion  for  you,  for  you  won't  have  any  old  grand- 
mother to  spin  for  you  out  in  the  woods  there ;  and  mayhap 
she  may  not  be  here  when  yon  come  back." ' 


AN  HOUR  ON  THE  CROSSING  POLE.          265 

"  After  a  moment's  silence  to  the  memory  of  her  kind  old 
relative,  she  went  on : 

"•'  And  Fred.  Hoadley  and  Lucy  Stone  are  married.  Well, 
I  should  think  it  was  time  they  were,  if  they  ever  intended 
to  be.  Why,  he  had  waited  on  her  a  year  or  two  before  we 
came  away.  And  to  think  that  Hannah  Meigs  has  got  a 
baby !  That  beats  all.  Why,  they  have  been  married  as 
much  as  ten  years  !  But  when  is  George  coming  here,  James, 
and  how  long  will  he  stay  ? ' 

"  So  the  happy  young  wife  ran  on,  and  her  husband 
replied : 

'"He  will  come  here  in  the  morning.  Jim  Lee  is  coming 
over  with  him,  and  he  will  stay  around  herS  about  a  week. 
He  stopped  two  weeks  at  his  sister's,  on  the  way,  and  he  says 
he  must  certainly  reach  home  by  Thanksgiving.' 

"  '  And,  if  he  does,  our  folks  will  get  a  letter  from  us  just 
at  the  right  time.  They  will  all  be  at  home  —  Thankful,  and 
Sarah,  and  Eunice,  and  Eben,  with  their  families.  They  will 
all  be  there,  James  —  all  but  us  ; '  and  the  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes,  as  she  thought  of  the  pleasant  old  festival,  and  the 
family  gathering  beneath  her  father's  roof. 

"  Her  husband  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder,  and,  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  her  eyes  a  moment,  said : 

" '  You  were  ever  a  home-bird,  Mary,  and  I  have  some- 
times thought,  when  I  am  all  alone  in  the  woods,  that  I  did 
very  wrong  in  bringing  you  so  far  away,  to  this  lonely 
place ' 

"  '  No,  no,  James ;  how  could  you  ever  think  so  ?  I  have 
been  so  happy  here  ! '  she  added,  glancing  at  the  fair,  round 
face  in  the  cradle.  « I  only  thought,  at  that  moment,  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  see  them  all  once  more  —  for  you,  and 
I,  and  baby,  to  step  in  upon  them.  Would  n't  they  stare  ? '  — 
she  went  on,  smiling  at  the  picture  Ycr  words  brought  up ; 
— '  for  you  know  that  they  don't  know  anything  about  baby 
yiet ;  but  I  ehall  write  all  abcfut  her,  and  tell  mother  that  v& 
23 


266  LEAVES   FROM    TILE   TREK    itiDRASYL. 

are  going  to  call  her  Clara,  after  her.  You  are  sure  George 
will  come  in  the  morning,  James  ?  ' 

"  With  her  babe  on  her  arm,  and  a  smile  on  her  lip,  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  her  old  friend,  Mary  Sherman  sought  her 
bed,  to  dream,  perchance,  of  yon  pleasant  old  homestead. 

"  Some  two  hours  later  she  was  awakened  by  a  yell  that 
i  struck  the  terror  of  death  to  her  heart.  It  was  the  terrific 
war-whoop  of  the  savages.  Her  husband  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and,  seizing  his  rifle,  made  for  the  door.  The  heavy  wooden 
bars  still  resisted  the  pressure  from  without ;  but  at  that  in- 
stant the  blows  of  half  a  dozen  hatchets  fell  upon  the  thick 
plank. 

" « The  chest  —  quick  —  help  me,  Mary ! '  he  whispered ; 
and,  following  his  motions  rather  than  his  words,  the  terrified 
woman  united  her  strength  to  his,  which  seemed  at  that  in- 
stant almost  superhuman,  and  they  succeeded  in  moving  the 
heavy  wooden  piece  of  furniture,  which  contained  all  their 
household  valuables,  against  the  door. 

"  Going  to  the  back  part  of  the  house,  where  there  was  a 
narrow  door,  seldom  used,  and  then  completely  hidden  by  the 
clinging -roses,  the  husband  bent  his  ear  for  a  moment,  and 
listened  breathlessly. 

" « The  devils  are  all  in  front,  Mary,'  he  whispered,  going 
.  to  the  bed  and  pressing  one  kiss  upon  the  soft  cheek  of  his 
child,  as  he  placed  it  in  her  arms.  '  Fly,  dearest ;  this  is 
your  only  hope !  Quick !  I  will  follow  as  soon  as  I  havo 
placed  a  few  more  things  against  the  door.  It  may  help  to 
deceive  them.  For  God's  sake,  fly ! '  he  repeated  in  agony, 
as  he  unclasped  her  arm  from  his  neck.  «  Take  the  path  to 
the  big  oak  in  the  east  woods.  I  will  be  with  you  in  a  mo- 
ment !  O,  God  ! '  he  murmured,  as  she  disappeared  in  the 
darkness ;  and  the  strong  man  reeled  as  he  turned  to  his 
barricade. 

"  Drawing  her  scanty  night  clothing  around  her  babe,  to 
ehield  it  from  the  bitter  winds,  Mary  Sherman  fled,  like  a 


AN  HOUR  ON   THE   CROSSING   POLE.  267 

leaf  before  the  gale,  in  the  direction  which  her  husband  had 
indicated.  In  the  edge  of  the  wood  stood  the  giant  oak, 
and,  crouching  behind  its  great  trunk,  she  awaited,  in  an 
agony  that  no  words  can  describe,  the  coming  of  her  hus- 
band. Unmindful  of  the  cold,  sleety  rain,  that  drenched  her 
thin  garments,  but  pressing  her  babe  more  closely  to  her 
breast,  she  kept  her  eyes  strained  in  the  direction  of  her 
home,  as  if  she  would  pierce  the  thick  darkness  that  lay  be- 
tween them.  Suddenly  a  ferocious  yell  rent  the  air,  and  the 
tall  spiral  flames  shot  up  from  the  thatched  roof  of  her 
home,  casting  a  red  glare  over  the  clearing,  and  bringing 
into  clear  relief  the  dusky  forms  of  the  yelling  savages. 
With  a  groan  of  agony,  the  wretched  wife  sank  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  friendly  tree. 

"From  this  state  of  happy  insensibility  she  was  at  length 
roused  by  the  wailings  of  her  child.  The  poor  little  thing 
was  almost  dead  from  cold.  Instinctively,  she  crept  along  a 
few  yards,  to  where  lay  a  great  hollow  log,  which  she  had 
often  noted  in  happier  days.  Creeping  into  this  shelter,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  she  awaited,  in  fear  and  agony,  the 
coming  dawn. 

"  She  almost  shrieked  in  return,  as  she  heard  the  yells  of 
the  departing  Indians,  as  they  plunged  into  the  woods,  and 
once  she  raised  her  child  to  flee,  as  a  low  growl  from  the 
other  end  of  her  strange  shelter  fell  on  her  ear.  But  fear 
of  the  foe  without  gave  her  courage  to  remain  and  face  that 
within,  if  need  be ;  and  when  the  gray  light  of  dawn  stole 
into  her  shelter,  and  she  saw  a  monstrous  bear  rise  from  his 
bed  in  the  opposite  end  of  the  log,  and  stalk  slowly  toward 
the  forest,  without  even  glancing  at  her,  she  drew  her  child 
closer  to  her  breast,  and  thanked  God  that  the  brute  had 
been  more  pitiful  than  man. 

"  When  George  Allen  and  his  guide  from  the  settlement 
reached  the  clearing  of  his  old  friends,  the  next  morning, 
they  found  their  comfortable  cottage  a  smouldering  heap  of 


LEAVE3  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDKAsYL. 

ashes,  and  about  a  rod  from  that  narrow  back  door  lay  the 
happy  group  of  the  evening  before  —  the  scalped  and  lifeless 
body  of  James  Sherman,  his  insensible  .wife,  and  the  little 
child  moaning  by  their  side." 

"Didn't  she  die  on  the  spot,  Miss  K ?"  exclaimed 

Kate  Lee.  "  Surely  no  woman  could  survive  a  night  like 
that!" 

"  No,  Katie ;  as  is  our  day,  so  is  our  strength.  Mary 
Sherman  lived  —  lived  to  bring  up  her  fatherless  child  — 
lives  now  to  bless  with  her  counsel  her  children  in  the  third 
generation ;  and  your  young  eyes  have  failed  to  perceive  any 
traces  of  this  '  baptism  of  pain.'  " 

"  Our  eyes,  Miss  B, ?  Save  we  seen  her  ?  "  both  my 

young'friends  exclaimed  at  once." 

"  You  have  looked  upon  her  face  to-day,  dear  girls ;  for 
Mary  Sherman  is  now  Grandmother  S— — ." 


VIII. 
THE  ALMSHOUSE  BOY. 

"THERE  —  take  that — and  that  —  and  that!"  and  Mrs. 
Rhoda  Tallman  brought  her  hard  hand  against  the  ears  of  an 
eight-years-old  urchin,  with  a  force  and  dexterity  that  would 
have  excited  the  admiration  of  any  professed  pugilist  in 
Christendom. 

The  child  was,  evidently,  used  to  it ;  he  did  not  shrink  or 
dodge,  but  stood  and  took  the  blows  with  an  air  of  stubborn 
indifference.  Retreating  a  step  or  two,  she  eyed  him  from 
head  to  foot,  a  moment,  and  again  went  on  : 

"  Now,  look  at  them  'ere  trousers  —  all  plastered  over 
with  mud  !  You  've  been  through  every  mud-puddle  between 
here  and  the  school-house !  Shut  up  —  not  a  word  out  of 
your  mouth !  "  she  continued,  seeing  him  about  to  speak. 
"  Who  do  you  think  is  goin'  to  pay  me  for  rubbing  the  skin 
off  my  hands  every  week,  to  keep  you  decent  —  to  say 
nothing  of  wood  and  soap?  Not  the  selectmen,  I  can  tell 
you !  It 's  little  enough  they  are  willin'  to  pay."  Then,  as 
if,  to  use  one  of  her  own  expressions,  "  she  didn't  know  how 
to  keep  her  hands  off  from  him,"  she  strode  forward,  caught 
him  by  the  collar  of  a  poor,  faded,  forlorn-looking  cotton 
jacket,  and  shook  him,  very  much  as  we  have  seen  a  snarling 
eur  shake  a  kitten  that  had  presumed  to  cross  his  path. 

"  There,  now  go  into  the  garden,  and  see  if  you  can  weed 
23* 


270  LEAVES    PROM    THE    TREE   IQDRASYL. 

out  the  beet  beds ;  and  let  me  catch  you  picking  green  cur- 
rants, or  getting  down  on  your  knees  in  the  dirt,  if  you  dare !  " 

The  boy  walked  slowly  away  until  he  reached  a  corner  of 
the  building,  when  he  paused,  and  pouted  out  his  lips,  and 
shook  his  clenched  fists,  in  a  way  that  indicated  anything  but 
submission  and  respect.  It  was  well  she  did  not  turn  back, 
as  usual,  to  see  that  her  orders  were  obeyed,  but  hastened  in- 
to the  house  to  join  a  gossip,  whom  she  had  very  impolitely 
left  alone  while  she  performed  this  little  scene. 

After  taking  breath,  and  assuring  her  visitor  that  she 
might  "  thank  her  stars  that  she  had  n't  any  of  the  town 
poor  to  deal  with,  for  a  more  provoking,  shiftless,  idle,  lying 
set  of  folks  never  breathed  the  breath  of  life,"  she  took  up 
her  work,  and  wkh  it  the  topic  of  conversation  which  had 
been  so  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  vision  of  little  Ned  Nor- 
ris'  mud-bespattered  trousers. 

"  As  to  the  family  in  the  other  part  of  the  house,  as  I  said 
before,  Mrs.  Gadman,  I  know  precious-  little  about  them,  but 
that's  quite  enough.  I  wish  they  had  kept  where  they 
belonged." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Rhoda,  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased  to 
have  some  one  in  the  house  with  you.  That  part  always 
looks  so  dark  and  pokerish  that  I  'm  almost  afraid  to  pass  it 
after  dark." 

Mrs.  Gadman  spoke  mischievously,  for  she  well  knew  that 
Mrs.  Rhoda  did  not,  as  she  often  said,  "fear  the  face  of 
clay,"  besides,  she  knew,  also,  that  her  vixenish  temper  was 
the  chief  reason  why  the  half  of  the  house,  belonging  to  a 
brother,  remained  unoccupied ;  those  who  had  tried  living 
there  declaring  that  people  might  as  well  try  to  live  in  a 
hornet's  nest  as  with  such  a  woman. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say.  There  are  some  folks  in  the  world  who 
are  allers  afeard  of  their  own  shadow  —  can't  be  contented 
without  they  are  surrounded  by  a  whole  tribe  of  people !  " 
said  the  old  dame,  sharply.  "  But  I  like  their  room  better 


THE   ALMSHOUSE   BOY.  271 

than  their  company.  Thank  the  Lord,  I  a'n't  narvaus,  and 
as  to  ghosts,  I  'd  rather  deal  with  all  that  ever  walked  than 
this  woman's  young  ones.  Look  at  that  great  grease-spot," 
she  went  on,  pointing  to  a  stain  on  her  well-scoured  floor. 
"  They  are  all  the  time  cantering  through  the  space,  and  yes- 
terday one  of  'em  took  it  into  his  head  to  come  in  here  with 
a  great  slice  of  bread-and-butter  in  his  hand,  and  drop  it  on 
my  floor.  Now,  I  may  scour  and  scrub  a  month  to  get  it 
out.  But  I  'm  not  going  to  put  up  with  their  running  in 
and  out  here,  and  so  I  told  her,  pretty  plainly." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  0,  butter  would  n't  have  melted  in  her  mouth  !  —  '  She 
was  so  sorry  that  sonny  had  made  me  any  trouble ;  but  he 
must  be  very  careful,  and  promise  good  Mrs.  Tallman  not 
to  do  so  again.'  Faugh !  I  'd  a  sonnied  him  if  he  'd  been 
my  boy ! " 

"  I  dare  say.  But  how  does  this  woman  live  ?  They  say 
she  is  very  poor.  Mrs.  White  says  she  never  saw  such  a 
mean  load  of  goods  as  they  brought.  Yet  she  looks  respect- 
able enough.  I  met  her  the'  other  day,  as  I  came  out  of 
Darling  &  Brown's." 

"  Yes,  and  she  fe4&  respectable  enough,  too,  I  can  assure 
you.  But,  with  all  her  managing,  anybody  can  see  that  they 
are  as  poor  as  Job.  She  has  nothing  but  what  she  earns 
with  her  needle ;  but,  la  me !  she  's  as  particular  about  what 
her  young  ones  say  and  do  as  if  she  was  the  minister's  wife. 
They  must  go  to  school  every  single  day,  to  learn  geography 
and  grammar,  and  such  like.  I  wonder  if  she  expects  it 
will  get  'em  a  meal  of  victuals  ?  The  oldest  boy  is  larnin'  a 
trade  in  New  Haven,  and  I  really  believe  that  she  and  the 
children  would  starve  through  the  week  rather  than  not  have 
something  good  when  he  comes  home  of  a  Sunday.  Then 
she  makes  such  a  fuss  over  him  —  tells  him  all  her  plans, 
and  asks  his  advice,  jest  as  if  the  opinion  of  a  'prentice  boy 
was  of  any  consequence !  She  may  be  a  decent  sort  of  a 


LEAVES  JROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

woman  enough  for  aught  I  know,  but  she  ha'n't  the  least  fac- 
ulty to  get  along  in  the  world  or  to  govern  her  children. 
There 's  nothing  like  makin'  children  know  their  places,  neigh- 
bor Gadman,  and  Widow  Banks  will  find  that  out  before 
many  years,  I  guess.  That  oldest  boy  of  iers  rules  the 
whole  roost,  now ;  it  fairly  makes  me  ache  to  see  how  she 
lets  'em  go  on ;  for,  let  my  boys  be  what  they  may  now,  as 
long  as  they  were  under  my  thumb,  they  had  to  walk  pretty 
straight.  I  've  got  one  thing  to  comfort  me  —  it  can't  be 
said  I  spoilt  them  by  indulgence ! " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  guest,  as  she  rose  to  leave,  anx- 
ious to  discuss  Widow  Banks'  "  ways  and  means  "  at  the  next 
house;  and  "certainly  not,"  we  repeat,  Mrs.  Rhoda,  for 
when  wert  thou  ever  liable  to  the  "  soft  impeachment "  of 
showing  indulgence  to  aught  beneath  thy  control  ? 

Rigidly  just,  according  to  thy  poor,  meagre  conceptions 
of  justice,  we  grant  thee  ;  but  indulgent !  — why,  the  sharp, 
fife-like  tones  of  thy  voice,  the  cold,  steady  gleam  of  thy  light- 
blue  eyes,  thy  sallow,  diminutive,  froze-and-thawed  visage, 
would  be  sufficient  vouchers  of  thy  innocence,  even  if  we  were 
unable  to  point  to  the  example  of  thy  two  strong-limbed, 
stout-hearted  boys,  who  embraced  the%rliest  opportunity  to 
slip  from  beneath  thy  maternal  thumb,  and,  true  to  their 
early  habits,  have  continued  to  "  walk  straight "  away,  with- 
out pausing  to  cast  one  regretful  glance  on  the  home  of  their 
childhood,  or  wishing,  even  in  dreams,  to  see  again  their 
mother's  face ;  but,  violent,  selfish  and  unprincipled,  one  now 
hunts  the  cunning  beaver  along  our  western  waters,  a  savage 
among  savages,  while  the  other  makes  one  of  the  crowd  that 
fill  our  prisons,  the  victim  of  his  own  unbridled  passions. 

Alas  !  for  thee,  Mrs.  Rhoda  Tallman  !  Alas !  for  all  poor, 
stinted  souls,  who  have  learned  to  recognize  no  higher  law 
than  mere  physical  force  —  who  still  cling  to  the  old  code  of 
lex  talionis,  as  tenaciously  as  if  they  had  had  their  birth  on 
the  plains  of  Syria,  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  Hebrew  tent. 


THE   ALM3HOU3E  BOY.  273 

But,  in  justice  to  the  old  woman,  we  must  say  that,  if  she 
had  seen  three-score  years  without  catching  one  strain  of  the 
angelic  chorus  of  peace  and  good-will  which,  for  eighteen 
centuries,  has  been  filling  our  atmosphere  and  the  heart  of 
every  reverent  listener  with  hopes  mightier  than  death  and  the 
grave,  it  was,  in  part,  owing  to  other  causes  than  wilful  ig- 
norance. 

Born  amidst  the  squalid  misery  of  the  drunkard's  home, 
where  the  very  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  strife  and  curses ; 
alike  the  victim  of  a  drunken  father's  rage  and  the  ungov- 
ernable temper  of  her  miserable,  fretful,  sorely-tried  mother, 
she  had  grown  up  to  maturity,  with  some  dozen  more  young 
immortals,  ignorant,  selfish,  and  ungovernable.  As  she  had 
advanced  towards  womanhood,  several  influences  came  in  to 
soften,  or,  rather,  conceal  the  sharp,  disagreeable  points  in 
her  character.  At  eighteen,  she  married  Jo  Tallman,  an 
easy,  good-tempered,  indolent  fellow,  who,  after  one  or  two 
futile  attempts  to  enforce  his  authority  on  a  disputed  point, 
found  himself  obliged  to  leave  the  field  to  his  shrewish  part- 
ner, and  in  a  few  weeks  became  as  submissive  as*  a  lamb. 

If  cleanliness  be  next  to  godliness,  as  is  asserted,  then 
Mrs.  Rhoda  was  certainly  in  a  very  enviable  condition ;  for 
she  possessed  this  virtue  to  an  extreme  degree.  Even  in  her 
own  squalid  home  she  had  been  noticeable  for  her  habits  of 
cleanliness  and  industry,  and,  when  she  had  a  home  of  her 
own,  they  soon  came  to  comprise,  in  her  view,  all  religion 
and  ethics ;  indeed,  we  much  doubt  if  she  would  have  been 
contented  in  heaven  unless  there  were  some  floors  there  to 
scrub  or  some  stains  to  scratch  out. 

Jo  Tallman  was  a  blacksmith  by  trade,  and  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  when  he  came  in  from  the  shop,  his  shoes  left  many 
unsightly  traces  on  his  wife's  nicely-scoured  floors,  especially 
in  damp,  rainy  weather,  which  were  sure  to  call  forth  her 
sharpest  words.  This  roused  the  malignant  spirit  of  recrimin- 
ation, which  left  foot-prints  in  their  hearts  far  more  unsightly 


274         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

and  diffictdt  of  erasure  than  those  on  the  floor.  The  wordy 
conflict  was  unequal.  Jo  had  no  great  development  of  the 
organ  of  language ;  besides,  he  was  too  easy  to  scold ;  so,  by 
degrees,  he  found  that  he  could  enjoy  himself  far  more  to  his 
mind  in  a  corner  of  the  village  bar-room,  than  at  his  own 
fireside,  thus  leaving  his  two  little  boys  wholly  to  the  control 
of  his  stronger  half.  During  their  early  years,  by  dint  of 
scolding,  threatening,  and  whipping,  the  mother  managed  to 
keep  these  boys  remarkably  ignorant  of  the  mysteries  of  mud 
pastry,  measuring  the  depth  of  brooks,  climbing  trees  and 
fences,  and  all  that  department  of  science  to  which  the  mind 
of  childhood  "doth  seriously  incline."  As  they  grew  in 
years  and  stature,  she  by  no  means  relaxed  the  pressure  of 
her  thumb,  but,  by  equivocation,  deception,  and  open  false- 
hood, they  often  contrived  to  slip  from  beneath  it,  until  in 
physical  strength  they  became  more  than  a  match  for  her, 
and  treated  her  commands  with  contempt  and  defiance.  His 
state  of  things  was  not  reached  without  many  severe  struggles 
on  her  part  to  retain  her  arbitrary  control  over  them,  and 
their  home  not  unfrequently  echoed  furious  words  of  anger 
and  strife.  They  soon  followed  their  father's  example,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  tavern.  In  time,  the  evil  influence  of  the  place 
began  to  show  itself  in  the  habits  of  both  father  and  sons, 
and  the  demon  of  intemperance  was  added  to  domestic  strife. 
But  the  wife  and  mother  was  the  last  to  see  it.  She  sat 
alone  by  her  nice  hearth  diligently  plying  the  needle,  and 
comforting  herself  with  the  reflection  that  there  is  "  no  loss 
without  some  gain ; "  if  they  were  away,  she  need  n't  burn 
so  much  wood,  neither  would  they  be  littering  the  room 
up  with  whittlings  and  other  rubbish ;  the  tavern  was  the 
place  for  such  things  —  a  handful  of  dirt  there,  more  or  less, 
did  not  matter  anyway. 

Such  was  Rhoda  Tallman  in  her  youth,  hard,  querulous, 
n.nd  exacting ;  and  she  was  in  no  wise  changed  for  the  better 


THE  ALMSHOUSE  BOY.  275 

when,  husbandless  and  childless,  she  took  little  Ned  Norris 
to  live  with  her.  Ned  was  one  of 

" Love's  outcasts  on  the  earth  ; 

The  child  of  love,  —  betraying  and  betrayed,  — 
The  blossom  opened  in  the  Upas'  shade." 

So  ran  the  rumor,  for  the  mother,  poor,  young,  friendless 
thing,  refused  to  answer  questions,  and,  a  few  hours  after  his 
birth,  exchanged  the  bitter  charities  of  the  village  almshouse 
for  the  grave. 

When  the  child  was  about  four  years  old,  the  town  mag- 
nates, in  their  wisdom,  decided  that  it  would  be  less  expen- 
sive to  board  out  the  few  paupers  dependent  on  them,  than 
to  support  an  almshouse.  Accordingly,  at  the  annual  town- 
meeting,  they  were  put  up  at  auction,  like  any  other  town 
property,  but  with  this  radical  difference,  they  were  struck 
off  to  the  lowest  instead  of  the  highest  bidder.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  little  Ned  Norris,  after  going  the  rounds  of  some 
half-dozen  families  that  necessity  or  the  desire  for  gain  had 
induced  to  "  bid  him  off"  at  the  lowest  living  price  per  week, 
became,  at  last,  an  inmate  of  Mrs.  Ehoda  Tallman's  dwelling. 
He  was  a  bright,  quick-witted,  impulsive  boy,  and,  young  as 
he  was,  did  not  fail  to  see,  or  rather  feel,  that  the  aim  of  each 
family  was  to  make  the  most  out  of  their  bargain ;  and,  as 
they  were  usually  coarse  people,  with  whom  cuffs  were  more 
ready  coin  than  caresses,  the  consequence  was,  that  he  be- 
came indifferent  to  shame  and  punishment,  careless,  idle, 
and  stubborn. 

But  the  angel  of  mercy  never  wholly  abandons  the  heart 
of  childhood,  and  sometimes  a  gift  from  a  school-mate  (the 
"  selectmen "  always  stipulated  with  the  people  who  kept 
him,  for  so  many  weeks'  schooling,  or,  at  least,  a  pretence 
towards  it),  or  a  kind  word  from  the  teacher,  would  stir  his 
better  nature,  and  kept  it  from  becoming  entirely  encrusted 
with  evil. 


276  I4EAVJS  FROM   THE   TREE  IQDRASTL. 

Until  the  Widow  Banks  and  her  children  came  to  reside  in 
the  house,  Ned  had  never  given  much  thought  to  his  friend- 
less, isolated  position.  Sometimes,  indeed,  on  the  "  last  day  " 
of  school,  when  the  picture-books  were  distributed,  and  his 
schoolmates  ran  shouting  home  to  display  them  to  their 
mothers  and  sisters,  he  had  slackened  his  pace,  and  wondered 
why  he  had  no  relations  —  wishing  very  much  that  he  had  a 
sister,  or,  at  least,  a  cousin,  to  whom  he  could  show  his  pic- 
tures. 

But  when  George  and  Sarah  Banks  became  his  school- 
mates, and  he  listened  to  their  ceaseless  quotations  of  "  mam- 
ma," and  references  to  "  brother  Fred.,"  this  feeling  became 
more  distinct.  Many  times,  as  he  bent  over  the  garden  beds 
after  school,  with  his  allotted  task  before  him,  his  eyes"  would 
wander  to  the  window  where  Mrs.  Banks  usually  sat  cease- 
lessly plying  her  needle  on  "  band,  gusset  and  seam,"  occasion- 
ally turning  her  head  to  reply  to  little  Allan's  " bo-peep"  or 
listening  with  a  pleasant  smile  to  the  bird-like  chatter  of 
George  and  Sarah.  He  could  not  help  feeling  the  difference  be- 
tween their  home  and  his ;  and  he  wondered  if  Mrs.  Banks 
never  scolded  nor  got  angry  like  Mrs.  Rhoda,  and  how  it  would 
seem  to  have  such  a  home.  His  fingers  would  forget  their 
mole-like  task,  and  he  would  sit  dreaming  of  these  things 
until  the  sharp  voice  of  his  mistress  roused  all  the  old  Adam 
in  his  nature,  and  be  would  pursue  his  work,  muttering  : 

"  If  she  wants  weeds  pulled  any  faster,  she  may  pull  them 
herself." 

After  turning  to  bestow  on  Mrs.  Rhoda  the  grin  of  hate 
and  defiance,  on  the  occasion  which  we  have  described  at 
the  commencement  of  the  story,  he  walked  slowly  into  the 
garden,  and  began  jerking  up  the  weeds,  with  a  strong  wish  in 
his  heart  that  he  could  jerk  Mrs.  Rhoda  in  just  the  same  way 
He  did  not  once  look  up  to  Mrs.  Banks'  window,  nor  heed 
the  voices  of  her  children,  who  were  speaking  very  eagerly. 
They  wsre  speaking  of  him,  and,  presently,  Mrs.  Banks  laid 


THE  ALMSHOUSB   BOY.  277 

down  her  work  and  came  out  into  the  garden ;  but  he  was 
too  angry  —  too  intent  on  listening  to  the  evil  thoughts 
which  filled  him — to  heed  her  step,  until  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  head,  and  said  : 

"  George  tells  me  that  you  fell  and  hurt  your  ankle,  while 
helping  Sarah  to  escape  from  some  unruly  cattle,  to-^ay." 

"  I  could  n't  help  it !  "  began  the  boy,  in  a  tone  of  depre- 
cation ;  for  Mrs.  Rhoda  was  no  believer  in  accidents,  and  he 
mistook  Mrs.  Banks'  tone  for  one  of  censure.  "  I  stepped  on 
a  stone,  and  it  rolled." 

"  Of  course  you  could  not;  no  boy  falls  when  he  can  help 
it,"  she  replied,  rather  amused  at  his  manner.  "  I  did  not 
intend  to  blame  you  for  falling,  but  to  thank  you  for  your  care 
of  Sarah,  and  to  see  how  badly  you  are  hurt.  Which  foot  is 
it?  "  she  asked,  bending  down  to  examine  it. 

The  child  looked  with  a  kind  of  bashful  wonder  into  the 
widow's  face,  then  down  upon  his  little,  bare,  brown  feet,  and, 
hastily  drawing  back,  he  rinsed  them  in  a  shallow  pool  of 
water  left  by  the  recent  shower,  and  held  up  the  ankle  for 
her  examination,  saying,  in  a  tone  of  hesitation : 

"  All  the  black  won't  come  off,  ma'am." 

"  Never  mind,  boy.  It  is  somewhat  swollen.  Now  put  it 
down,  and  let  me  see  you  bear  your  weight  upon  it.  Where 
does  it  hurt  worst  ?  "  she  added,  pressing  her  fingers  lightly 
on  the  swollen  place. 

The  boy  winced,  and  said:  "Please  don't  —  don't  turn  it 
that  way,  ma'am  !  " 

•  "  It  is  a  bad  sprain,  and  will  make  you  lame  for  some 
days,  I  fear.  If  you  will  go  into  the  house,  I  will  bind  it  up 
for  you." 

The  boy  hesitated.  "  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Rhoda  will  thrash 
me,  if  I  do." 

"  Thrash  you  ?  "  repeated  the  widow,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes ;  whip  me  if  I  don't  get  all  the  weeds  pulled  in  these 
two  beds,  before  sundown."  ^ 

24 


278         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Did  you  tell  Mrs.  Tallman  you  had  hurt  your  ankle  ?  " 

"No." 

"  But  you  should  have  told  her  when  you  first  came  home 
and  she  would  have  bound  it  up  nicely.  Why  did  n't  you 
tell  her  ?  "  she  asked  rather  curiously,  as  she  marked  his  sud- 
den change  of  expression. 

"  Because  —  because,"  he  stammered,  while  his  lip  trem- 
bled at  the  memory  of  the  blows  that  had  scarcely  ceased  to 
tingle ;  "  because  she  would  not  let  me ;  and  if  I  had,  she  'd 
only  said,  as  she  oilers  does,  she  was  plaguy  glad  of  it  —  it 
would  learn  me  to  stand  up,  next  time.  I  won't  stay  here !  " 
he  continued,  more  vehemently,  "I'll  run  away  —  I  hate 
her  —  I  wish  she  was  dead ! " 

"Hush!  hush!  my  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Banks,  gently.    "This* 
is  all  wrong.     You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.      You 
don't  wish  any  such  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  wish  I  was  dead,  too,  for  everybody 
thrashes  me ;  "  and  the  poor  boy  drew  his  ragged  straw  hat 
over  his  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 

This  time  there  was  quite  as  much  sorrow  as  anger  in  his 
tones,  and  the  motherly  heart  of  Mrs.  Banks  was  touched  by 
his  friendless  condition. 

"  Poor  boy  —  poor  little  fellow ! "  she  said  as  she  gathered 
one  of  his  little  hands  in  hers ;  "  have  you  no  friends  —  no 
one  to  look  after  you  ?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head  and  continued  to  sob. 

"  You  must  not  feel  so  badly,  Edward,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "  I  will  be  your  friend,  and  I  will  ask 
Mrs.  Tallman  to  let  you  come  and  see  us  often.  We  will  all 
love  you  very  much.  Indeed,  George  and  Sarah  do  already. 
Only  think,  if  you  had  been  dead  to-day,  who  would  have 
saved  Sarah  ?  You  have  no  mother,  they  say,"  —  she  felt 
the  boy's  hand  tremble  in  hers,  —  "  but  if  you  try  to  be  a 
good  boy  I  will  be  your  mother,  and  George  and  Sarah  and 


THE   ALMSHOUSE  BOY.  279 

little  Allan  shall  be  your  brothers  and  sister.  You  will  like 
that,  I  dare  say." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  whispered  the  subdued  child,  but  with  a  look 
of  wonder,  as  if  he  did  not  comprehend  just  how  all  this  was 
to  be  brought  about. 

"  I  will  go  now,  and  talk  with  Mrs.  Tallman  about  your 
ankle,  and,  if  she  will  permit,  I  will  send  George  to  help  you 
with  your  weeding." 

Mrs.  Rhoda  had  parted  from  Mrs.  Gadman,  and  resumed 
her  work  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Banks  approaching  her  door. 

"  What  can  she  be  after  here?  "  she  muttered.  ". To  bor- 
row something,  I  '11  warrant.  I  've  been  expecting  it  ever 
since  she  came.  But  I  'm  not  goin'  to  begin  any  such  thing, 
and  so  I  '11  let  her  know  in  the  first  of  it." 

This  amiable  determination  made  itself  felt  in  her  fingers, 
which  twitched  the  needle  through  the  coarse  cloth  she  was 
sewing  with  a  more  decided  jerk  than  usual,  and  her  whole 
attitude  said,  as  plainly  as  words  can  say,  "  I  neither  borrow 
nor  lend." 

Mrs.  Banks  paused  at  the  door,  wiped  her  shoes  with  a 
degree  of  care  which  in  any  other  mood  would  have  won  the 
old  woman's  admiration ;  but  she  did  not  look  up  until  that 
lady  said  pleasantly,  "  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Tallman.  I 
saw  you  at  the  window,  and  was  tempted  to  come  in  and  chat 
with  you  a  while ;  but  your  floor  is  so  white  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  step  on  it." 

This  compliment  acted  as  a  slight  solvent  on  the  old  wo- 
man's determination,  and  she  condescended  to  look  up  and  say, 
"  Come  in,  ma'am.  You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  stepping  on 
my  floor,  for  it  is  dirty  enough,  I  am  sure,  though  I  washed 
it  up  this  morning.  But  there  's  no  use  in  a  body's  trying 
to  keep  decent  in  such  weather,  when  it  rains  once  in  two 
hours,  and  with  that  good-for-nothing  boy  to  run  in  and  out, 
and  make  more  tracks  than  a  dog." 

"  But  we  housekeepers  must  confess  that,  if  the  frequent 


280         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL 

showers  do  make  bad  work  with  our  floors,  they  make  the 
scene  without  very  beautiful.  I  have  been  looking  at  your 
garden  ;  it  really  does  me  good  to  see  how  bright  and  thrifty 
everything  looks.  I  can  almost  sep  the  plants  grow." 

"  And  the  weeds  too,  I  '11  warrant ;  for  that  boy  is  the  la- 
ziest of  all  mortals." 

"  Perhaps  he  would  work  better  if  he  had  some  one  with 
him.  I  find  that  children  soon  get  tired  of  working  alone." 

"  Somebody  with  him !  Do  you  suppose  I  'm  going  out 
there  to  pull  weeds,  when  I  keep  him  for  seventy-five  cents  a 
week,  and  don't  make  a  cent  at  that,  the  Lord  knows ! "  cried 
the  old  woman  sharply. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  Widow  Banks,  with  a  significance 
she  tried  in  vain  to  repress ;  "  but  my  George  is  constantly 
teasing  me  for  something  to  do.  When  I  could  afford  to  have 
a  garden  he  used  to  help  me  a  great  deal.  He  will  be  very 
happy  to  assist  Edward,  if  you  will  permit  him,  and,  indeed, 
I  shall  take  it  as  a  great  favor." 

Mrs.  Rhoda's  first  thought  was  to  refuse,  but  a  moment's 
reflection  told  her  that  four  hands  would  be  better  than  two, 
especially  as  she  was  very  anxious  to  have  the  garden 
weeded ;  besides,  they  would  be  directly  under  her  eye ;  there- 
fore she  consented. 

Mrs.  Banks  then  spoke  of  Ned's  ankle,  and  the  cause  of  the 
injury.  The  old  lady  hastily  interrupted  her  : 

"  Fell  down  !  I  thought  he  had,  by  the  look  of  his  clothes 
when  he  came  home.  If  he 's  hurt  his  foot,  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
What  business  had  he  to  go  near  the  oxen  ?  But  I  don't 
believe  a  word  about  it.  He 's  allers  makin'  up  some  lie  tn 
other !  " 

"  But  his  ankle  is  really  badly  sprained,  Mrs.  Tallman,  and, 
as  it  was  done  in  assisting  my  child,  I  think  I  ought  to  attend 
to  it,  though  I  know  I  shall  not  do  it  so  skilfully  as  you 
would." 

"  Skilful  or  not,"  began  Mrs.  Rhoda,  "  I  shan't  find  ban- 


THE  ALMSHOUSE   BOY.  281 

dages  and  liniment  for  every  little  scratch  that  young  one 
gets.  But  you  can  do  as  you  like.  You  can  afford  it  I 
suppose  !  " 

Mrs.  Banks  took  no  notice  of  the  sneering  emphasis  which 
Mrs.  Rhoda  placed  upon  her  last  remark,  but  said  mildly : 

"  I  trust  I  shall  never  be  too  poor  to  be  grateful  —  espec- 
ially to  one  who  has,  perhaps,  saved  the  life  of  my  child." 

"  Umph  ! "  muttered  the  old  dame,  as  the  door  closed  on 
her  visitor.  "  I  should  think  she  'd  got  young  ones  enough  of 
her  own  to  look  after,  without  troubling  herself  with  the  town 
poor.  But  't  would  be  just  the  same  if  she  had  a  dozen.  I 
knew  she  had  n't  any  faculty." 

George  soon  joined  Ned  in  the  garden  ;  and,  though  Mrs. 
Rhoda  watched  them  sharply,  she  never  caught  them  even 
once  gathering  the  currants  or  otherwise  neglecting  their  work. 
Therefore,  when  George  came  in  after  tea,  and  asked  if  Ned 
might  go  home  with  him  and  have  his  ankle  bound  up,  she 
said,  "  Do  go  along  and  done  with  it !  " 

The  ankle  was  duly  cared  for  ;  and  then  there  never  was, 
in  Ned's  opinion,  such  curiosities  as  the  children  displayed  to 
his  admiring  gaze.  There  Was  little  Allan's  new  alphabet, 
gayly  printed  on  Bristol-board  which  "  brother  Fred."  had 
brought  him  from  the  city ;  there  was,  also,  Allan's  file  of 
tin  soldiers,  a  sadly  mutilated  set,  some  wanting  an  arm  and 
some  a  "head,  but  all  the  more  natural,  as  George  observed, 
for  it  proved  they  had  seen  actual  service.  Then,  there  was 
George  and  Sarah's  box  of  books  —  a  wonderful  box,  to  say 
nothing  of  its  contents,  with  Doctor  Franklin  pasted  on  the 
centre  of  the  lid,  flanked  on  either  side  by  run-away  appren- 
tices, stray  horses,  dogs,  cows,  ships,  steamboats,  hats  and 
muffs ;  while  directly  above  his  head  ran  a  locomotive  with  a 
whole  train  of  cars.  Ah !  it  was  a  wonderful  box  —  quite  a 
picture-gallery  in  itself —  and  it  seemed  as  if  Ned  would  never 
tire  of  looking  at  it  and  asking  questions.  They  had  scarcely 
come  to  the  books  when  Mrs.  Banks  reminded  them  that  Mrs. 
24* 


LEAVES  FROM  IHK  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

Tallman  had  not  given  Ned  permission  to  stay,  and  might  bo 
displeased  if  he  did  not  return.  The  children  were  very 
anxious  to  have  him  stay  just  to  see  one  more,~and  Ned  looked 
very  wistfully  at  a  red-and-blue  Robinson  Crusoe  which  sat 
holding  the  gentle  lama  by  the  halter,  in  the  book  that 
George  had  just  opened  ;  but  when  Mrs.  Banks  repeated  her 
remark,  saying,  if  he  went  now,  Mrs.  Tallman  would  be  more 
willing,  perhaps,  to  let  him  come  again,  he1  turned  away  reso- 
lutely, saying,  "  Please,  ma'am,  won't  you  ask  her  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  and  the  kind  widow  kept  her  word.  Mrs.  Rhoda 
consented,  though  in  no  very  gracious  manner,  muttering, 
"  If  he  was  there,  he  would  be  out  of  her  way." 

So  little  Ned  became  a  frequent  visitor  at  Mrs.  Banks' 
apartments.  As  his  bashfulness  wore  off,  she  found  that  ho 
was  coarse  and  rude  in  his  language  and  manners,  —  how 
should  he  be  otherwise  ?  —  and  very  ignorant. 

She  did  not  reject  him,  however,  as  a  bad  boy  who  would 
contaminate  her  own  children,  but  her  kind  heart  yearned 
over  him,  and  she  strove,  by  kind  and  gentle  teachings,  to  lead 
him  to  "  overcome  evil  with  good."  It  was  long  before  she 
could  perceive  any  radical  change  in  those  respects,  yet  her 
"  faith  was  large  in  time,"  and  she  did  not  despair. 

She  was  right.  In  her  room  he  caught  glimpses  of  child- 
hood's fairy  land,  from  which  he  had  been  excluded  from  hi,« 
birth.  He  was  not  ungrateful,  and  gradually  her  smile  of 
approval  or  glance  of  reproof  came  to  have  more  influence 
over  him  than  all  the  cuffs  he  had  received  from  his  birth, 
and  these  had  been  neither  few  nor  far  between.  He  cer- 
tainly was  a  better  boy,  or  Mrs.  Rhoda  a  better  woman ;  for, 
though  she  continued  to  raise  her  hand  in  the  old  scientific 
manner,  the  blows  were  much  less  frequent  and  heavy.  Pos- 
sibly a  breath  of  the  atmosphere  of  quiet  happiness  that  per' 
vaded  Widow  Banks'  rooms  had  stolen  through  the  key-hole 
(Mrs.  Rhoda  usually  kept  the  doors  locked  to  keep  out  the 
children),  and  somewhat  softened  the  acerbity  of  her  disposi- 


TH£   ALJISHOUSE   BOY.  288 

tion ;  or,  perhaps,  the  change  might  be  traced  to  the  many 
daily  little  attentions  and  deeds  of  kindness  which  Mrs.  Banks 
persisted  in  showing  her,  notwithstanding  the  indifferent  and 
often  coarse  manner  in  which  they  were  received. 

But  to  whatever  influence  we  ascribe  it,  it  is  very  certain 
that  she  one  day  called  all  the  children  to  her  door  and  divid- 
ed between  them  some  fine  large  apples,  and  not  only  gave 
Mrs.  Banks  permission  to  fasten  her  clothes-line  to  a  post  on 
her  portion  of  the  yard, —  a  favor  which  she  had  peremptorily 
refused  when  she  first  came  there,  —  but  even  accepted  an  in- 
vitation to  take  tea  from  that  lady.  Unfortunately,  this  visit 
did  not  terminate  as  happily  as  Mrs.  Banks  hoped,  for  the  old 
lady  did  not  fail  to  criticize  the  management  of  her  children, 
and  enlarge  on  her  own  superior  method. 

"  My  boys  were  never  allowed  to  litter  up  a  room  like 
that,"  she  exclaimed,  pointing  to  a  corner  where  George  was 
engaged  in  manufacturing  a  chair  for  Sarah's  doll,  while  she 
and  Allan  watched  the  progress  with  delight.  "  If  they 
wanted  to  whittle,  there  was  room  enough  out  of  doors,  and 
that  was  the  place  for  them." 

"  Yes,  I  highly  approve  of  out-of-door  exercise  for  both 
boys  and  girls,"  said  Mrs.  Banks,  innocently ;  "  but  I  find, 
if  we  leave  children  too  much  to  themselves,  they  are  liable  to 
get  into  mischief,  —  contract  evil  habits,  and  " — 

"  Do  you  mean  to  twit  me  to  my  face  ?  "  cried  the  old 
woman,  angrily.  "  I  guess  my  boys  were  no  worse  than  some 
others,  and  some  folks  that  I  know  may  live  to  see'  theirs  hung 
yet !  "  and,  jerking  her  head  up  and  down  like  a  beetle  against 
a  wall,  she  marched  out  of  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind 
her. 

For  several  weeks  after  this  visit,  she  met  all  Mrs.  Banks' 
attempts  at  conciliation  with  a  frostiness  that  would  have 
chilled  a  less  hopeful  nature ;  but  gentleness  and  patience, 
combined  with  faith  and  love,  can  do  much  even  in  our  world 


284         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

of  discord ;  and,  in  time,  they  did  not  fail  to  soften  the  anger 
of  Mrs.  Rhoda. 

To  the  surprise  of  the  whole  neighborhood,  Mrs.  Banks  con- 
tinued to  reside  in  the  house  until  her  lease  expired ;  then,  in 
hope  of  obtaining  better  employment  and  being  nearer  her  son 
Fred.,  she  removed  to  New  Haven. 

It  was  a  sad  day  for  Ned  Norris  when  the  Banks  family 

left  M ;  how  sad  none  but  those  whose  childhood  has 

been  lone  and  friendless  as  his  can  tell,  and  God  grant 
they  may  be  few !  He  had  earnestly  promised  the  good 
widow  to  remember  her  teachings,  and  to  try  to  be  a  good  boy ; 
but,  as  he  stood  on  the  steps,  watching  the  slow  progress  of 
the  wagon  that  bore  his  friends  and  their  few  household  chat- 
tels away,  the  prospect  of  ever  being  able  to  fulfil  that  prom- 
ise seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  hopeless;  and  when  it 
turned  the  corner  into  the  great  stage-road,  and  George  waved 
his  hat  for  the  last  time,  he  burst  into  tears. 

To  the  honor  of  Mrs.  Rhoda's  nature  be  it  recorded  that 
she  did  not  box  his  ears,  or  make  any  demonstration  towards 
it,  but  contented  herself  with  saying  : 

"  Well,  well,  boy,  there 's  no  use  in  crying.  George  could 
not  stay  here  forever.  You  '11  find  enough  to  cry  for,  before 
you  die,  without  crying  after  him,  —  though  I  must  say,"  she 
added  to  a  neighbor  who  had  run  in  to  see  them  start,  "  that 
he  is  one  of  the  best-behaved  boys  I  ever  saw ;  and  the  won- 
der is  how  he  comes  to  be  so,  for  his  mother  has  n't  got  the 
least  faculty  for  managing  children." 

"  I  never  thought  she  had  much  faculty  for  anything  ;  if 
she  had,  she  kept  it  to  herself,  for  she  was  n't  a  bit  sociable," 
replied  the  woman.  "  She  was  always  kinder  queer." 

"  Queer  or  not,"  said  the  old  woman,  rather  testily,  "  she 
had  as  few  bad  streaks  as  anybody  I  know,  and  everybody 
has  some." 

Ay,  and  everybody  has  some  "  good  streaks,"  friend  Rhoda ; 
but  thine,  which  had  been  drawn  out  and  made  faintly  Imoi- 


THE   ALMSHOCSE  BOY.  285 

nous  by  the  sun  of  Love,  soon  began  to  fade  in  its  absence, 
and,  in  a  few  weeks,  became  dim  and  dingy  as  before. 
Little  Ned  felt  the  change,  and,  between  the  bitter  temper  of 
the  old  lady  and  the  influence  of  his  old  habits,  became  dis- 
couraged and  discontented,  and  almost  ceased  to  wish  to  be  a 
good  boy. 

But  he  did  not  forget  his  friends ;  and  when  Dick  Mills, 
the  stage-coach  driver,  occasionally  brought  him  some  such 
trifling  presents  from  the  Banks  family  as  their  limited 
means  enabled  them  to  procure,  he  longed  for  something 
to  send  in  return  —  some  little  thing  to  prove  that  he 
was  not  forgetful  or  ungrateful.  But  all  his  little  keepsakes 
had  been  their  gifts,  and  if  he  sometimes  received  a  penny  or 
tw,o  for  some  slight  service  rendered  a  neighbor,  the^  were 
always  taken  into  the  close  keeping  of  his  old  mistress. 

One  summer  day,  he  was  at  his  old  work  in  the  garden, 
when  there  came  a  thought  to  him  which  brightened  his  face 
at  once.  There  was  the  raspberry -bush  in  the  corner  of  the 
garden;  his  bush,  —  for  even  Mrs.  Rhoda  called  it  his, —  with 
its  fine,  large,  delicious  fruit  just  beginning  to  ripen.  "  They  '11 
be  almost  as  big  as  acorn-cups,"  he  said,  eying  them  with  de- 
light, "  and  I'll  send  them.  I  don't  believe  they'll  get  any 
in  New  Haven  half  as  nice." 

But  the  next  thing  was  a  basket  to  put  them  in.  He 
would  not  ask  Mrs.  Rhoda  for  one,  because  he  feared  being 
forbidden  to  think  of  such  nonsense.  After  several  futile  at- 
tempts to  construct  one  from  some  old  splinters  he  found  in 
the  garret,  he  gave  it  up,  and  decided  to  ask  his  friend,  Dick 
Mills,  to  lend  him  one.  It  so  happened,  that  the  day  previ- 
ous to  the  one  on  which  Dick  had  promised  to  take  charge  of 
his  berries,  Mrs.  Rhoda  had  occasion  to  be  absent  from  home. 
She  set  some  cold  food  on  the  table  for  his  dinner,  and,  after 
laying  out  work  enough  to  keep  him  busy  through  the  day, 
left  him  alone. 

Ned  worked  very  industriously  until  he  began  to  grow 


286  LEAVES   FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

hungry,  and  cast  frequent  glances  toward  the  noon-mark  on 
the  kitchen  window-sill.  At  length  the  lazy  shadow  crept 
quite  up  to  the  notch,  and  he  was  proceeding  to  the  house  to 
get  his  dinner,  when  he  observed  a  forlorn-looking  Indian 
woman  coming  down  the  street  with  several  baskets  dangling 
from  her  arm.  Seeing  him  look  at  her  very  earnestly,  she 
came  up  to  the  gate,  and  asked  him  to  buy  one.  There  was 
one  just  the  size  he  wanted.  Ah,  how  he  longed  to  possess 
it !  The  splinters  were  so  smooth  and  white,  the  red  and 
yellow  stains  upon  it  so  gay  and  bright.  He  did  not  heed 
the  woman's  jargon,  but  stood  turning  round  and  round,  with 
a  very  wistful  look,  until  her  "  You  '11  take  it,  my  little  man, 
—  it's  only  a  sixpence!  "  aroused  him,  and  he  put  it  back, 
with  a  sigh,  saying,  "  No,  no,  I  can't." 

"  If  your  mother  would  just  give  me  a  bit  of  dinner  for  it," 
suggested  the  woman. 

Mother !  Ned  sighed  again ;  but,  suddenly  remembering 
his  own  dinner,  he  asked  her  to  wait  a  moment,  and,  running 
into  the  house,  he  brought  out  the  bread  and  meat  that  Mrs. 
Rhoda  had  left  for  him,  and  asked  if  that  would  answer. 

"  Yes,  my  man,  though  cheap  as  dirt  at  that,"  she  replied, 
as  she  took  the  food,  and  placed  the  basket  in  his  hand. 

Ned  hid  his  prize  in  the  thick  currant-bushes,  and  returned 
to  his  work  in  high  spirits,  and  with  such  a  good  will  that 
even  Mrs.  Rhoda,  on  her  return,  condescended  to  say  that 
he  had  done  quite  as  much  as  she  expected. 

After  supper  he  gathered  his  berries,  and  covered  them  with 
a  nice  piece  of  white  paper,  which  George  Banks  had  given 
him.  He  was  stealing  past  the  door,  when  his  old  mistress 
saw  him,  and  called  him  back.  "  Her  great  handkerchief, 
her  great  red  cotton  handkerchief,"  was  missing,  and  he  was 
required  to  give  an  account  of  it.  He  disclaimed  all  knowl- 
edge of  it ;  but  a  glimpse  of  the  basket,  which  he  in  vain 
tried  to  hide  behind  him,  aroused  her  suspicions  at  once. 

"  Whose  basket  is  that  ?    Where  did  you  get  it,  and  what 


THE   ALMSIIOUSE   BOY.  287 

have  you  got  in  it,  you  little  scamp  ?  "  she  cried,  angrily,  as 
she  snatched  it  from  his  hand. 

"  It  is  n't  there.  I  have  n't  got  it  nor  seen  it,"  cried  the 
boy,  earnestly,  as  she  tore  off  his  paper  cover. 

"What's  all  this?  Where  did  you  get  the  basket  of 
berries,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them?"  she  re- 
peated. 

The  boy  was  obliged  to  repeat  the  story  of  his  purchase  of 
the  basket,  but  as  soon  as  he  mentioned  the  'Indian  woman, 
her  anger  burst  forth  with  tenfold  fury.  Regardless  of  his 
repeated  declarations  that  the  woman  did  not  enter  the  gate, 
and  that  he  had  not  seen  the  missing  article,  she  insisted  that 
the  squaw  had  stolen  it,  or  that  he  had  given  it  to  her  in  ex- 
change for  the  basket. 

Again  the  blows  fell  thick  about  his  ears,  and  in  a  manner 
that  proved  that  her  right  hand  had  by  no  means  "  forgotten 
its  cunning."  "There!  into  the  house  with  you,  you  little 
lying,  thieving  rascal !  "  she  exclaimed,  driving  him  before  her 
to  the  door. 

The  color  mounted  to  the  boy's  cheek  as  he  paused,  and, 
facing  her,  said  firmly,  "  I  am  no  liar.  Will  you  give  me  my 
basket?" 

"  Your  basket !  "  she  replied,  mimicking  him.  "  I  should 
like  to  know  by  what  means  it  became  yours.  I  guess 
you  '11  learn  not  to  peddle  off  my  things  again  to  a  drunken 
squaw  —  thief!  " 

The  boy  cast  on  her  a  fierce  look  of  hatred  and  defiance 
as  she  placed  the  basket  in  the  cupboard,  and  ordered  him 
to  bed.  He  went  to  his  garret,  swelling  with  rage  and  dis- 
appointment. "  She  shan't  have  it !  "  he  muttered,  as  he 
sat  down  on  his  bed,  with  clenched  fists.  "  I  hate  her  worse 
than  ever.  I  '11  steal  it  *and  run  away.  I  '11  go  this  very 
night ! " 

Mrs.  Rhoda's  bedroom  door  stood  open,  but  Ned's  bare 
feet  gave  no  sound,  as  he  stole  across  the  floor  to  the  cup- 


288  LEAVES   *HOM   THE   TKEE   IGDBASTL. 

board,  and  seized  upon  his  basket ;  neither  did  the  slight  rat- 
1  tling  of  the  kitchen  latch,  as  it  yielded  to  his  pressure,  disturb 
her  slumbers. 

The  next  moment  he  stood  beneath  the  quiet  stars,  as 
friendless  as  on  the  day  of  his  mother's  death.  But  he  was 
too  young  to  reflect ;  besides,  he  was  very,  very  angry ;  and  he 
walked  down  the  street  with  a  firm  step  and  tearless  eyes, 
until  he  reached  the  stables  of  the  village  inn.  There  were 
watchful  eyes  'not  easily  cheated,  and  out  sprang  old  Lion, 
Dick  Mills'  great  dog,  with  a  low  growl ;  but,  instantly  recog- 
nizing him,  he  sprang  upon  him,  wagging  his  tail,  thrusting 
his  nose  up  to  his  face,  and  manifesting  his  delight  by  quick, 
short  barks. 

The  boy's  whispered  "  Get  out !  Get  down,  Lion  !  "  oaly 
made  him  redouble  his  gambols ;  and,  fearing  to  wake  some 
one  in  the  house,  if  he  spoke  louder,  he  permitted  the  dog  to 
go  on,  until  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

Noble  old  Lion  !  He  had  an  older  claim  on  the  boy's 
heart  than  even  the  Banks  family.  After  they  moved  away, 
he  was  the  only  thing  the  child  had  to  love,  or  that  returned 
his  love.  Ned  felt  this,  and  there  was  a  choking  sensation  in 
his  throat  as  he  pushed  his  old  friend  down,  and  strove  to 
speak  sternly  to  him,  and  drive  him  back.  Perhaps  Lion  was 
conscious  of  this  struggle,  for  he  did  not  obey,  but,  springing 
in  advance  a  few  rods,  lay  down  directly  in  his  path,  and, 
laying  his  head  between  his  outstretched  paws,  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  such  wistful,  beseeching  expression,  that  the 
poor  boy  sat  down  by  the  road-side,  and  burst  into  .tears.  At 
length  he  brushed  them  away  from  his  cheek,  and,  patting 
the  old  dog's  head,  said  : 

"  No,  no,  old  Lion,  you  must  n't  go.  They  would  say  I 
stole  you,  too,  I  suppose.  Go  hotae !  Go  back,  sir  ! "  he 
continued,  sternly.  The  dog  retreated  a  step  or  two,  and 
stood  eying  him  with  the  same  wistful  look.  Ned  caught  up 
a  stone,  and,  taming  away  his  head,  hurled  it  at  him.  The 


THE   ALMSHOUSE   BOY.  289 

dog  gave  a  low  hoarse  growl,  and  turned  towards  home.  The 
boy  went  his  way,  but,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  restrain  them, 
the  tears  rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  often  turned 
as  if  he  expected  —  nay,  hoped  —  to  see  old  Lion  at  his 
heels.  At  sunrise  he  was  crossing  the  long  bridge  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  city.  His  heart  sank  within  him  at  the 
sight  of  so  many  houses  glittering  and  gleaming  beneath  the 
morning  sunlight,  for  how  should  he  ever  find  the  one  in- 
habited by  Mrs.  Banks?  Then  he  began  -to  ask  himself 
what  that  good  woman  would  say.  She  might  blame  him, 
and,  perhaps,  send  him  back.  He  grew  irresolute.  Once  or 
twice  he  ventured  to  ask  some  boys,  whom  he  met,  to  tell  him 
where  Mrs.  Banks  lived ;  but  a  quizzical  reply,  or  a  shout  of 
laughter,  was  all  he  received.  "Weary,  hungry  and  discouraged, 
he  wandered  along  Water-street,  until  he  found  himself  in  the 
vicinity  of  Long  Wharf,  where  he  sat  down  on  a  pile  of 
lumber,  and  watched,  with  a  listless  gaze,  the  movements  on 
board  of  a  brig  which  was  fitting  out  for  sea.  The  scene 
soon  became  a  very  busy  one.  Drays  and  carts  began  to 
rumble  along  the  street ;  then  came  gentlemen  on  foot  and  in 
carriages,  whose  very  canes  had  a  business-like  look,  and, 
finally,  a  large  drove  of  mules  which,  amidst  kickings  and 
snortings  and  no  very  gentle  coaxings  from  the  sailors,  were 
transferred  to  the  brig's  deck.  The  boy  became  interested, 
and  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  until  he  sat  down  on  a  box,  close 
to  the  vessel's  side.  Two  portly-looking  gentlemen  stood 
there  talking  with  a  powerful,  athletic  man,  with  a  profusion 
of  dark  crispy  hair,  slightly  sprinkled  with  gray,  and  an  open, 
good-humored  face,  barring  a  slight  irritable  expression  of  im- 
patience. They  were  about  to  leave  the  spot,  when  the  latter 
turned,  as  if  to  give  some  further  orders  to  the  man  on  board 
the  brig,  and  his  eye  fell  on  the  child. 

"  Up  with  you,  my  lad!  "  he  cried,  hastily.     "That  box 
should  have  gone  on  board  before.   Halloo,  there  ! "  he  added, 
motioning  to  one  of  the  m0b,     "Jake  that  box  on  board,  and 
25 


290  LEAVES   FROM    THE   TREE   IGDRASYL. 

see  that  it  is  carefully  stowed."  He  was  turning  away,  when, 
struck  by  the  boy's  eager,  earnest  look,  he  said,  impatiently  • 
"  Well,  out  with  it,  my  lad.  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  To  go  to  sea,  sir,"  replied  Ned,  instinctively. 

"  To  go  to  sea  ! "  replied  the  captain,  —  for  it  was  none 
other,  —  gazing  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  quizzical 
look.  "  What  berth  do  you  expect  to  fill?  Do  you  know  a 
marling-spike  from  a  rope's  end  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  can  learn,  sir." 

"  True  enough,  and  in  more  ways  than  one,  too.  What  do 
you  expect  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean  what  do  you  expect  me  to  pay  for  your  valuable 
services  ?  " 

"  What  you  please,  sir." 

"  Come,  Bingham,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  who  had 
stood,  during  this  conversation,  impatiently  tapping  his  boot 
with  his  gold-headed  cane ;  "  you  have  shipped  one  boy,  and 
that  is  enough." 

"  But  the  rascal  has  sent  word  he  can't  go,  and,  as  you  in- 
sist on  my  taking  out  these  passengers,  I  must  have  some  one 
to  wait  on  them  besides  old  Joe.  I  will  overtake  you  in  a 
few  moments." 

He  then  turned  to  Ned,  and,  by  a  few  well-directed  queries, 
drew  from  him  his  whole  story. 

"  The  old  sea-cow  ! "  he  muttered,  as  Ned  related  the  cause 
of  his  running  away.  "  Well,  you  got  your  basket ;  I  'm 
glad  of  that.  You  are  good  grit.  You  shall  go  with  me. 
I  '11  feed  and  clothe  you,  and  give  you  a  trifle  beside,  and, 
what 's  more,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "  a  good  whipping  now 
and  then,  just  to  remind  you  of  that  old  alligator." 

"  I  'm  use  to  that ! "  cried  the  boy,  catching  the  quick, 
cheerful  tone  of  the  skipper. 

The  captain  called  to  a  negro,  who  answered  to  the  name 
of  "  Cook,"  and  gave  the  boy  into  his  cate  for  the  day.  The 


THE  ALMSHOUSE  BOY.  291 

next  day  at  twelve  o'clock,  the  brig  "  Swan  "  was  off  Mon- 
tauk  Point,  bound  for  Berbice.  But  as  we  are  neither  a 
mermaid  nor  a  Mother  Carey's  chicken,  we  will  not  attempt 
to  follow  them,  but  go  back  to  the  village,  and  listen  a  moment 
to  the  conversation  between  two  of  the  "  selectmen "  who 
stand  talking  at  the  corner  of  the  green.  Mrs.  Rhoda  has 
duly  notified  them  of  Ned's  elopement,  and  their  faces  wear 
such  a  serene,  self-satisfied  look,  that  we  scarcely  need  to  hear 

Esq.  G 's  closing  remark,  "  There  is  no  need  of  making 

a  fuss  about  it ;  it  will  be  quite  a  saving  to  the  town,"  to 
convince  us  that  they  are  very  public-spirited  men,  and 
have  a  very  distinct  idea  of  the  difference  between  dollars 
and  souls. 

Twelve  years  have  passed  —  years  in  which  that  rare  da- 
guerrean,  Time,  has  added  many  a  scene  to  the  gallery  of 
memory,  sketched  amidst  sin  and  suffering,  perchance,  but 
they  all  look  beautiful  in  this  shaded  light.  One  sketch  more, 
and  we  have  done. 

It  is,  in  the  phrase  of  the  old  German  minne-singers,  the 

"sweet  spring-time,"  and  our  quiet  town  of  M lies 

bathed  in  the  fresh,  dewy  beauty  of  a  new  creation.  Its 
aspect  is  little  changed,  for  twelve  years  effect  much  less 
change  in  such  a  place  than  twelve  weeks  in  a  crowded  city ; 
for  time  is  far  more  lenient  than  a  board  of  aldermen,  or  the 
incendiary.  Moss  has  accumulated  on  the  northern  roofs  of 
some  of  the  old  houses ;  blinds  have  been  added  to  some ; 
on  others  the  unpainted  clapboards  have  taken  a  deeper 
brown ;  but  few  save  such  retrospective  souls  as  thou  and  I, 
reader,  would  note  the  change.  Therefore,  we  need  no  guide 
to  Mrs.  Rhoda's  dwelling,  nor  introduction  to  the  dame  her- 
self, who,  in  her  clean  cap  and  checked  linen  apron,  stands  in 
the  door-way  looking  down  the  street;  for  whatever  mad 
freaks  time  may  have  played  with  our  ringlets  and  roses,  he 


292         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

has  left  her  unscathed ;  indeed,  at  this  distance,  she  even  looks 
renovated. 

She  is  watching  for  some  one,  I  '11  wager ;  and  here  comes 
the  stage-coach,  dashing  past  the  tavern,  regardless  of  the  yells 
of  a  young  dog,  the  successor  of  old  Lion,  who  has  long  since 
gone  the  way  of  all  dogs,  and  draws  up  at  Mrs.  Rhoda's  door. 
Down  springs  Dick  Mills,  whose  short,  stout  figure  and  rubi- 
cund phiz  defy  time  and  weather,  and  lets  down  the  steps. 
A  handsome,  manly-looking  fellow,  in  a  blue  round-about 
jacket  and  a  Panama  hat,  steps  out  and  returns  the  old  woman's 
greeting. 

"  Ned  Norris !  "  "We  did  not  need  her  exclamation  to  tell 
us  that,  for  the  eyes  and  hair  are  the  same,  though  those 
heavy  whiskers  are  a  foreign  growth,  and  his  cheek,  between 
wind  and  weather,  has  deepened  to  an  oriental  hue.  He  turns 
to  the  carriage,  and  pretty  Sarah  Banks,  who  has  been  his 
wife  for  more  than  a  twelve-month,  carefully  places  a  bundle 
in  his  arms.  What  can  it  be  ? «  Some  rare  eggs,  perhaps,  or 
a  new  set  of  choice  crockery  for  Mrs.  Rhoda's  table ;  some- 
thing, at  least,  which  he  is  very  anxious  to  show  her,  for, 
awkwardly  enough,  he  begins  to  undo  the  fastenings,  while 
the  old  dame  scolds,  and  Sarah,  springing  to  the  ground,  says, 
as  she  takes  it  from  him,  "  Do  wait,  dear  Ned,  until  we  get 
into  the  house !  " 

In  a  few  moments  they  are  seated,  and  the  skilful  hands  of 
Sarah  remove  the  soft  wrappers,  and  out  looks  a  baby  —  a 
beautiful,  blue-eyed  baby,  fresh  and  fair  as  an  angel.  0, 
what  a  baby  that  is  !  "  Neighbors,  have  you  such  an  one  ?  " 
How  the  father's  eyes  glisten  with  pride  and  joy  as  the  old 
woman  praises  its  beauty  and  points  out  its  resemblance  to 
its  mother !  How  she  trots  it  and  croons  over  it,  while  Ned 
and  Sarah  draw  from  the  big  basket  (not  Ned's  little  one)  the 
few  trifles  they  have  brought  for  her !  Trifles  !  there  is  tea 
and  sugar  enough  to  last  a  reasonable  woman  six  months,  to 


THE   ALM8HOUSE  BOY.  29S 

Bay  nothing  of  a  nice  new  cap  from  Mrs.  Banks,  and  an  apron 
from  Fred.'s  wife. 

Ah  !  Mrs.  Rhoda  has  found  her  heart.  See  how  her  old 
eyes  fill  with  tears  while  she  protests  that  Ned  is  "  kinder  to 
her  than  her  own  son  could  be,  and  that  she  has  not  the  heart 
to  take  a  single  thing  now  he  has  a  family  of  his  own  to  sup- 
port. It 's  robbing  the  baby ;  God  bless  it !  " . 

"  Never  mind  the  baby,  Aunt  Rhoda,"  replies  Ned,  laugh- 
ing. "  I  can  manage  to  fill  his  mouth  and  a  dozen  more,  if 
need  be,  for  to-morrow  morning  I  sail  master  of  the  '  Orion,' 
if  wind  and  tide  are  fair ;  so  give  the  baby  to  me,  mother, 
and  get  us  a  good  dinner,  for  we  must  go  back  in  the  return 


The  seed  sown  by  the  good  Mrs.  Banks  in  the  heart  of  that 
friendless  boy  did  not  fall  on  stony  ground,  but,  under  tho 
kind  and  somewhat  whimsical  nurture  of  Captain  Bingham, 
throve  and  brought  forth  fruit,  not  unmixed  with  weeds,  of 
course ;  but  these  are  fast  disappearing  under  the  gentle  influ- 
ence of  Sarah. 

Captain  Bingham  never  deserted  him ;  beneath  his  eye  he 
became  a  thorough  seaman,  and  was  gradually  advanced  until 
he  gained  the  command  of  a  fine  new  brig.  For  some  years 
he  had  supplied  many  of  Mrs.  Rhoda 's  wants,  and  though  he 
wholly  refused  to  take  her  into  his  family  to  live,  as  Sarah 
once  suggested,  he  continues  to  provide  for  her,  and  has  never 
permitted  the  recently-awakened  warmth  in  her  old  heart  to 
grow  cold  from  neglect.  Her  Siberian  visage  will  relax  and 
become  almost  tropical  when  she  speaks  of  him  to  her  neigh- 
bors, and  she  is  often  heard  to  remark,  "  Boys  will  be  boys, 
and  there  a'n't  no  use  in  trying  to  make  'em  walk  a  crack." 

Wise  people  will  tell  you,  dear  reader,  that  the  age  of 
miracles  is  past.  But  believe  it  not  —  0,  believe  it  not! — for 
faith,  and  hope,  and  love,  are  still  on  earth,  and  the  great 
God  still  in  heaven  ! 

25* 


IX. 
MELINDA   BUTTON. 

"  IT  is  a  kind  offer  enough,  Melinda;  but  why  not  stay  here 
and  learn  a  trade  ?  " 

"  Because  I  hate  sawing,  and  have  no  idea  of  being  scolded 
by  some  fretftil  old  seamstress  or  milliner.  Out  there  I  can 
at  least  do  as  I  please." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  I  shall  be  much  surprised  if  you  are 
content  to  stay  there  six  weeks,  though  I  have  no  wish  to  dis- 
courage you." 

"  Content  !•"  cried  the  laughing  girl ;  "  that  would,  indeed, 
be  something  new  for  me.  But  tell  me  something  about  these 
old  relatives ;  you  have  been  there,  you  say.  They  are  rich, 
certainly." 

"  Yes ;  I  went  there  once  with  your  mother.  It 's  quite 
out  of  the  world,  among  the  woods  and  rocks.  The  place 
gave  me  a  notion  of  the  world  before  the  flood ;  and  Aunt 
Eunice  is  nothing  at  all  like  your  grandmother.  I  doubt  if 
her  ideas  ever  wander  beyond  the  limits  of  her  farm.  Your 
mother,  I  remember,  happened  to  tear  her  dress  in  passing 
through  one  of  their  clumsy  gates,"  continued  the  lady, 
laughing.  "  It  was  a  silk,  and  you  should  have  heard  Aunt 
Eunice's  lecture  on  the  extravagance  and  degeneracy  of  the 
times  that  permitted  a  woman  to  wear  a  silk  dress  anywhere 
save  to  church.  However,  your  mother  listened  with  meek 
ness,  and  was  well  repaid,  for  the  old  woman  loaded  us  down 
with  good  things  when  we  came  home.  She  is  kind,  I  think. 


MELINDA   DUTTON.  295 

though  certainly  queer.  But  they  are  rich,  and  can't  live 
forever." 

The  above  is  but  a  fragment  of  the  conversation  that  took 
place  between  Mrs.  Murdock,  of  Middletown,  and  her  young 
friend,  Melinda  Dutton.  Melinda  was  an  orphan,  the  pet  of 
a  doting  grandmother,  who  had  done  all  she  could  towards 
spoiling  her.  She  was  ignorant,  untrained  and  conceited,  — 
not  that  she  had  lacked  facilities  for  education,  for  her  grand- 
mother had  sent  her  to  the  most  fashionable  schools  in  the 
city,  and  she  had,  as  the  old  lady  proudly  observed,  "  been 
through  all  the  branches ;  "  yet  of  all  that  was  useful  and 
necessary  for  one  in  her  condition  of  life  she  was  wholly 
ignorant.  Nature  had  given  her  a  quick,  bright  intellect,  and 
a  loving  heart,  yet,  at  sixteen,  she  was  indolent,  ignorant, 
self-willed  and  discontented. 

Melinda's  mother  had  died  soon  after  her  birth,  and  her 
father  had  spent  most  of  his  time  at  the  south.  His  business 
was  lucrative,  yet  his  habits  were  such  that  at  his  death  there 
was  nothing  left  for  his  child.  The  grandmother  did  not  long 
survive  him,  and  left  the  girl  not  only  portionless,  but  nearly 
friendless.  In  a  remote  corner  of  our  town  the  old  lady  had 
a  brother  and  sister  still  living.  They  were  unmarried,  and, 
when  informed  of  her  death,  wrote  to  offer  a  home  to  her 
orphan  grandchild.  It  was  this  letter  that  gave  rise  to  the 
above  conversation. 

Mrs.  Murdock  has  given  her  impression  of  Aunt  Eunice ; 
now,  dear  reader,  let  me  give  you  mine.  She  was  not,  in- 
deed, anything  like  Melinda's  grandmother,  but  a  shrewd, 
strong-minded,  energetic  woman,  who  knew  little  and  cared 
less  about  that  portion  of  the  world  which  could  not  be  seen 
from  the  old  farm-house  door,  where  she  had  always  dwelt 
with  her  brother  Jonas.  Her  prepossessions  and  prejudices 
were  very  strong,  and  not  easily  changed,  for  she  was  seldom 
contradicted,  —  none  of  the  neighbors  caring  to  "  get  into  a 
snarl "  with  Aunt  Eunice.  Her  tongue  was  swift  and  sharp, 


296         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

her  manners  somewhat  rough ;  but  she  had  a  true,  kind  heart, 
though  the  way  to  reach  it  often  seemed  somewhat  intricate. 
She  had  about  her  that  kind  of  rude  dignity  and  that  marked 
individuality  which  are  peculiar  to  people  who,  as  one  of  our 
hard-fisted  neighbors  expresses  it,  "  never  look  up  to  nobody 
but  themselves ;  "  and,  for  all  such  as  allowed  themselves  to 
feel  or  manifest  any  craving  to  be  "  fashionable  and  gen- 
teel," she  felt  a  heartier  contempt  than  a  Turk  feels  for  a 
Christian. 

Personally,  she  was  fine-looking,  tall  and  erect,  with  eyes 
of  that  deep,  brilliant  blue  whose  intensity  often  surpasses 
those  of  a  darker  shade,  and  high  but  well-cut  features,  indic- 
ative of  great  firmness  and  decision  of  character.  At  three- 
score not  a  single  line  of  silver  thridded  the  mass  of  dark- 
brown  hair  which  seldom  suffered  the  confinement  of  cap  or 
bonnet,  and  her  skirts  were  of  the  narrowest  fashion,  and  her 
short-gowns  of  the  most  antique  pattern  possible,  made  up 
from  her  stores  of  home-made  flannel,  or,  in  summer,  of  gay 
chintz  which  sne  had  purchased  years  ago.  A  flannel  blanket 
in  winter,  and  one  of  Uncle  Jonas'  cast-off  straw  hats  in  sum- 
mer, answered  for  head-gear  ;  and  in  this  guise  she  appeared 
in  the  great  yard  back  of  the  house,  at  sunrise  every  morn- 
ing, with  her  milking-pails  on  her  arm  and  a  great  bowl  of 
corn-meal  in  her  hand,  followed  by  a  motley  group  of  hens, 
ducks,  geese  and  turkeys,  gobbling,  crowing,  cackling  and 
screaming,  while  her  own  sharp  voice  was  heard  above  the 
din,  lecturing  some  belligerent  old  turkey-cock  or  gormandiz- 
ing gander,  or  in  softer  tones  commending  some  motherly  old 
hen ;  for,  like  most  childless  women,  she  had  contracted  the 
habit  of  talking  to  everything,  animate  and  inanimate,  as  if 
it  were  human.  Her  house  was  scrupulously  neat,  but  she  was 
too  much  of  an  utilitarian  to  cover  her  floor  with  a  carpet  — 
"  plaguy  dirty  things,  good  for  nothing  but  the  moths ;  " 
neither  had  she  sofas,  lounges  or  ottomans,  but  hef  parlor  was 
furnished  with  great  arm-chairs,  and  these  were  piled  full  of 


MELINDA   BUTTON.  297 

woollen  blankets  with  all  sorts  of  striped  borders,  and  cover- 
lets of  all  imaginable  patterns.  • 

On  tne  cherry  bureau,  and  in  the  corners  of  the  room,  were 
divers  rolls  of  homespun  cloth,  linen,  and  woollen,  and  li?isey- 
woolsey,  shining  cam-colored  flannel  for  her  own  use,  and  but- 
ternut-colored "  dress  cloth  "  for  Uncle  Jonas'  wear.  Aunt 
Eunice  did  not  like  black,  it  "  was  such  a  rotten  color." 

The  old-fashioned  round  table  was  guiltless  of  lamps  or 
books,  or  engravings,  but,  at  the  proper  season,  was  covered 
with  great  pewter  platters,  full  of  sliced  apples,  or  peaches, 
or  berries,  drying  for  winter  use.  The  walls  were  garnished 
•with  sundry  bunches  of  yarn,  and  from  a  projecting  beam 
hung  the  old  people's  Sunday  suit. 

The  sitting-room  or,  as  they  called  it,  the  "  out-room,"  was 
scarcely  less  bountifully  furnished.  Here  were,  usually, 
baskets  of  apples  standing  about,  and,  across  the  hearth  in 
summer,  stood  Aunt  Eunice's  great  wheel,  while  close  at  hand, 
on  the  red  chest,  lay  several  bunches  of  wool-rolls  ready  for 
spinning  at  moments  of  leisure  from  the  kitchen.  But  Aunt 
Eunice's  peculiar  province  was  the  kitchen ;  here  her  glory- 
was  reflected  in  the  bright  tins  which  lined  the  shelves,  the 
pails  and  noggins,  the  quantities  of  dried  beef,  and  strings  of 
apples,  pumpkins,  red  pepjper  and  herbs,  that  dangled  from 
the  beams  overhead.  The  great  wooden  screen  before  the 
fire  was  hung  with  clean  linen  bags,  and,  perchance,  a  shirt 
or  pair  of  trousers  of  Uncle  Jonas' ;  and,  in  each  corner  of 
the  yawning  fire-place,  stood  the  dye-pot  and  salt-mortar  — 
those  lares  ef  our  fathers'  hearth-stones,  quite  as  useful  and 
quite  as  venerable  as  those  of  Rome  or  Pompeii  —  certainly 
quite  as  venerable,  for,  who,  I  ask,  ever  saw  a  new  salt- 
mortar  ? 

Here,  Aunt  Eunice  had  spent  sixty  years,  busy,  independ- 
ent, contented,  and  happy  —  happy,  except  at  two  or  three 
periods,  when  she  had  been  troubled  with  the  suspicion  that 
Uncle  Jonas  thought  of  getting  married.  And  she  was 


298  LEAVES   FROM   THE  TREE   IGDRA3YL. 

respected  and  beloved  too ;  for  the  sharp  words  and  stinging 
proverbs  which  she  bestowed  upon  her  neighbors  were  pretty 
sure  to  be  followed  by  kind  deeds.  • 

But  I  must  not  forget  Uncle  Jonas.  Dear,  kind,  sunny- 
hearted,  Uncle  Jonas !  with  his  benevolent  smile,  his  quiet, 
thoughtful  manner,  and  his  few,  yet  pleasant,  words.  He 
was  the  patriarch  of  the  neighborhood,  whose  footsteps  were 
hallowed  by  angels  in  the  shape  of  little  children,  who  gath- 
ered around  and  looked  upon  him  with  love  and  reverence. 

Of  course,  Melinda  Dutton  was  very  poorly  qualified  to 
appreciate  or  enjoy  her  new  home.  Mrs.  Murdock's  words 
were  not  without  their  influence,  and  they  constantly  recurred 
to  her  mind,  after  she  was  seated  in  the  stage-coach  that  was 
to  convey  her  to  Maplehurst ;  and,  by  the  time  that  vehicle 
stopped  at  the  rustic  tavern  where  she  was  to  get  down,  she 
had  come  to  seriously  regard  her  old  relatives  with  excessive 
repugnance,  and  to  pity  herself  as  the  most  unfortunate  and 
wretched  of  mortals. 

"  Have  you  brought  my  niece,  Mr.  Green  ?  "  asked  a  full- 
toned,  pleasant  voice,  as  the  driver  opened  the  coach-door.  It 
was  Uncle  Jonas  that  spoke,  and  who  went  forward  and  care- 
fully assisted  her  to  alight.  His  words  were  so  kind  and 
cheerful,  his  manner  so  cordial,  as  he  led  her  into  the  house, 
and  asked  about  her  journey,  that  tne  girl's  brow  grew  clearer, 
and  she  watched  his  movements,  as  he  transferred  her  baggage 
to  his  square  farm-wagon,  with  unexpected  interest. 

The  Dudley  farm  was  about  three  miles  from  the  village. 
They  were  soon  on  the  road,  and,  as  they  passed  along,  Uncle 
Jonas  pointed  out  the  old  farm-houses,  and  told  her  the  names 
of  the  owners.  The  sun  set  soon  after  they  left  the  village ; 
the  twilight  deepened,  and  as  the  road  crept  carefully  and 
cautiously  on  among  the  hills,  and  grew  more  and  more 
rugged,  the  old  man  relapsed  into  silence.  The  moon  arose ; 
gradually  the  dark  shadows  fled,  and  the  dewy  forest-leaves 
quivered  and  glittered  like  glad  living  spirits,  as  the  soft 


MELINDA  BUTTON.  299 

moonbeams  slid  down  among  them  in  search  of  the  sweet, 
fragrant  flowers.  It  was  a  new  scene  to  Melinda.  There 
was  that  in  her  nature  that  answered  to  it,  and  she  uttered  a 
low  exclamation  of  delight. 

"Ay,  yes,  the  heavens  declare  his  righteousness,  and  all 
the  people  see  his  glory! "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  deep,  low 
tone,  involuntarily  slackening  his  horse's  pace,  and  raising  his 
eyes  reverently  to  the  heavens  above  them. 

They  turned  into  a  dark,  narrow  lane,  overhung  by  the 
luxuriant  branches  of  the  cherry-trees  that  shaded  it,  and,  soon 
afterwards,  the  horse  stopped,  and  Uncle  Jonas,  pointing  to 
the  dim  outline  of  the  old  farm-house,  shut  in  by  trees,  told 
her  that  was  her  home.  He  had  scarcely  ceased  to  speak 
when  Aunt  Eunice  appeared,  coming  from  the  house  with  a 
tall  candle  in  her  hand,  which  she  was  trying  to  screen  from 
the  current  of  air,  alternately  addressing  that  and  the  old 
house-dog,  who  was  manifesting  his  delight  at  his  master's 
return,  by  barking  and  gamboling  directly  in  her  path. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  you  black  scamp  !     Be  still,  I  say 
There,  sweel  out,  will  ye,  —  plague  on  the  pesky  thing !   I 
wish  I  'd  got  the  lantern.    Jonas !  I  say,  Jonas,  is  that  you  ? 
And  have  you  got  Lindy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  here  she  is,  Eunice,  —  you  can't  mistake  that  face ! ' 
he  said,  leading  the  girl  forward ;  "  she 's  a  Dudley,  every 
inch  of  her." 

"  So  much  the  better !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  shaking  her 
heartily  by  the  hand,  and  raising  her  light  to  get  a  better 
view  of  her  face.  "  You  're  the  last  of  a  good  stock,  for 
Jonas  never  will  get  married  now,  and  I  'm  proper  glad  you  've 
come  to  live  with  us.  But  come  in,  child ;  you  are  tired  and 
hungry  as  a  bear,  I  dare  say." 

Melinda  followed  her  into  the  house,  and  was  soon  seated 
at  a  table  loaded  with  eatables,  but  arranged  in  a  manner  tha 
greatly  disturbed  all  her  ideas  of  propriety.     There  was  a 
great  platter  of  cold  beef,  flanked  by  plates  of  butter,  smoked 


300         LEATES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

beef,  pickles,  cakes  and  pies.  On  opposite  corners  of  the 
table  the  old  lady  had  placed  a  loaf  of.  bread,  and  almost  a 
whole  cheese.  Between  the  old  people  stood  a  pitcher  of 
cider,  which  they  drank  alternately  with  their  tea. 

"  Cut  for  yourself,  Lindy !  "  said  the  old  lady,  handing 
over  the  loaf  and  a  sharp  knife.  The  girl  hesitated,  and  she 
continued :  "  I  s'pose  you  are  used  to  having  a  whole  plate- 
ful cut  up  every  time  you  eat,  just  as  Thankful  Stone  did 
here,  last  winter,  when  I  sprained  my  ankle.  But  I  put  a 
stop  to  it  pretty  quick.  What  was  left  was  all  dried  up,  and 
Miss  Thankful  did  not  like  dry  bread  nor  odds  and  ends  any 
better  than  other  folks,  and  I  was  n't  going  to  stand  dog  for 
the  whole  family.  It 's  rank  waste  to  cut  up  bread  in  that 
fashion ! " 

After  being  pressed  to  take  this  and  that,  and  "  jest  a 
crumb  more  "  of  something  else,  Melinda  withdrew  from  the 
table,  and  surveyed  the  kitchen  with  visible  astonishment. 
All  was  strange,  and  Aunt  Eunice,  rattling  away  her  dishes, 
asking  her  questions  about  her  journey,  lecturing  the  dog,  or 
inquiring  about  some  sick  person,  or  society  matters,  of  Uncle 
Jonas,  strangest  of  all. 

The  next  morning  Melinda  rose  at  a  late  hour,  and  made 
her  way  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Good  morning,  Lindy !  You  look  chirk  as  a  cricket !  " 
was  the  old  lady's  greeting.  "  Come,  get  your  breakfast," 
she  continued,  taking  a  covered  dish  from  the  hearth.  "  Jonas 
and  I  eat  two  hours  ago,  but  we  thought  we  'd  let  you  sleep, 
seeing  you  had  come  so  far  yesterday." 

"  Breakfast ! "  echoed  Melinda,  with  a  glance  at  the  old 
clock.  "  Why,  it  is  but  eight  o'clock  now,  and  we  never  have 
breakfast  until  that  time,  in  town !  " 

"  Then  you  are  a  pesky  lazy  set !  I  should  faint  clear 
away  before  that  time.  Why  could  n't  you  get  it  before  ?  " 

"  Because  we  never  got  up ;  or  grandmother  used  to  gel 


JtBLINDA   BUTTON.  301 

up,  to  be  sure,  but  she  nevejr  called  me  until  it  was  ready,  and 
that  was  at  eight." 

"  Well,  then,  she  did  not  do  her  duty  by  you,"  said  the  old 
woman,  bluntly.  "  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  here.  '  Airly  to  bed  and  airly  to  rise  '  is  our  creed." 

The  girl  ate  her  food  in  silence,  then  loitered  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  After  a  while,  she  said,  "  What  a  lonesome, 
dreary,  out-of-the-way  place  this  is,  aunt !  I  wonder  how  any 
one  in  his  senses  could  think  of  building  a  house  here !  " 

"  Tour  great-great-grandfather,  Ambrose  Dudley,  settled 
here  before  the  old  war,  and  if  he  was  n't  as  wise  as  any  of 
your  city  folks,  I  should  like  to  know  it.  He  was  a  justice 
and  a  deacon.  Besides,  when  folks  have  enough  to  do,  they 
ar'n't  apt  to  find  fault  with  such  an  old  homestead  as-  this," 
replied  the  old  lady,  dryly.  "  But,  come,  child,  if  you  've 
nothing  else  to  do,  wash  up  the  breakfast  dishes,  and  let  me 
see  how  smart  you  can  be ;  but,  lawful  sakes !  "  she  added, 
glancing  at  Melinda's  light  muslin,  "  you  don't  expect  to 
wash  dishes  in  that  gown,  I  hope.  It 's  as  bad  as  white,  and 
flimsy  as  a  cobweb." 

"  It  is  one  of  my  usual  summer  dresses,  aunt.  As  to 
tousework  —  I  never  washed  a  dish  in  my  life !  " 

"  Well,  now,  if  that  don't  beat  the  Dutch !  E'n-a-most 
seventeen,  and  never  washed  a  dish !  " 

"  Housework  is  for  servants.  No  lady  does  housework  — 
it  is  n't  genteel !  " 

"  Genteel!  a  poor,  good-for-nothing  set  of  critters  they 
must  be,  running  in  debt  and  cheating  other  folks  out  of  their 
honest  dues,  jest  as  Tim.  Hatton  did.  He  married  a  fine  lady, 
and  set  up  for  a  marchant,  and  cut  a  mighty  dash  for  a  while, 
and  then  run  out  of  the  little  end  of  the  horn.  Some  folks 
got  plaguily  bit  by  him.  Lord  save  us  from  all  such  crit- 
ters !  " 

"But,  aunt,  you  are  rich  enough  to  live  without  work 
Why  don't  you  hire  servants  ?  " 
26 


302         LEAVES  FKOM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Child ! " —  and  the  old  lady  was  quite  erect,  while  she  flour- 
ished the  bunch  of  scouring-grass  which  she  held  in  her  hand, 
with  double  vigor, — "  from  Ambrose  Dudley  down,  your  fore- 
fathers have  been  prudent,  pains-taking,  industrious  people. 
They  never  grudged  a  poor  man  a  meal  of  victuals  or  a  load 
of  wood ;  but  they  were  saving,  and  thought  it  no  disgrace  to 
work.  My  father  was  well  to  do  in  the  world ;  when  he 
died  we  all  shared  alike.  Your  grandma  married  and  set  up 
for  a  fine  lady,  and  spent  all  her  part  years  before  she  died. 
Jonas  and  I  have  held  our  own,  and  added  something  to  it, 
mayhap.  I  don't  want  to  boast ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  child, 
we  ar'n't  going  to  squander  what  we  have.  Why  should  I 
keep  servants  ?  I  have  to  slave  hard  enough  now,  and  I 
don't  want  a  pack  of  servants  to  manage.  I  would  n't  take 
all  the  southern  negroes  as  a  gift." 

"  O,  I  would !  There  ought  to  be  slaves  everywhere  to  do 
the  drudgery.  But  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  consequence  how 
people  live  in  such  a  place  as  this.  In  the  city  you  would 
have  to  live  like  other  people." 

"  Have  to !  I  'd  like  to  see  them  that  would  make  me 
have  to  be  such  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  critter.  I  'd  like  to 
know,  Lindy,  if  the  folks  in  Middletown  are  all  monkeys,  that 
they  must  ape  one  another  ?  They  read  their  Bibles,  I  sup- 
pose, and  don't  they  know  that  He  who  made  all  things  pro- 
vided two  hands  for  every  mouth,  and  that  he  that  won't  work 
sha'n't  eat?  Learn  to  help  yourself  child,  and  always 
remember  that  the  highest  price  you  can  pay  for  a  favor  is 
to  ask  for  it." 

Melinda  soon  found  that  it  would  not  be  so  easy  to  have 
"  her  own  way  out  there  "  as  she  fancied.  Aunt  Eunice,  re- 
garding all  her  previous  habits  and  opinions  with  inexpressi- 
ble contempt,  was  determined  to  make  her  a  thorough  house- 
keeper, and  she  was  a  much  more  formidable  character  than 
the  girl  had  fancied ;  but,  with  all  her  zeal,  Aunt  Eunice  was, 


MELINDA   DUTTON.  308 

s  yet,  not  quite  wise  or  gentle  enough  to  undertake  to 
emodel  her  niece's  character  with  any  great  hope  of  success. 

Melinda  set  about  her  tasks  with  considerable  zeal,  influ- 
enced as  much  by  the  novelty  of  the  thing  as  a  desire  to  make 
herself  useful.  But  her  ignorance,  her  carelessness,  and, 
above  all,  her  endless  inquisitiveness,  hourly  exhausted  her 
aunt's  small  stock  of  patience.  Besides,  Aunt  Eunice  had  a 
way  of  her  own  for  doing  things,  and  would  tolerate  no  inno- 
vations, and  Melinda  soon  developed  a  strong  passion  for 
experimenting.  If  she  moulded  the  bread,  it  was  sure  to  be 
after  some  new  method  of  her  own ;  or,  if  her  aunt  charged 
her  to  stir  the  cream  "  round  with  the  sun,"  she  would  inva- 
riably stir  it  the  other  way,  to  contradict,  by  experiment,  her 
aunt's  theory. 

"  I  tell  you,  Lindy,  you  '11  bewitch  that  cream.  It  '11  never 
come  until  doomsday  if  you  stir  it  that  way.  It  must  go 
round  with  the  sun  !  " 

"The  sun  doesn't  go  round,  aunt.  It's  the  earth  that 
moves ;  it 's  more  philosophical  to  stir  it  in  this  way." 

"  Fiddlesticks-ophical !  Are  you  blind  or  turning  fool,  to 
say  the  sun  don't  go  round  ?  Why,  look  yonder.  A  little 
while  ago  you  might  have  reached  it  with  a  pole,  e'enamost, 
from  the  top  of  High  hill.  Now  it  has  got  clean  away  up  in 
the  sky,  —  and  don't  it  go  down  every  night  behind  Joe 
Page's  woods  ?  " 

"  So  it  seems,  aunt.  But  every  child  knows  that  the  sun's 
motion  is  only  apparent ;  it  seems  to  rise  and  set  because  the 
earth  revolves  on  its  own  axis  every  day,  something  in  this 
way ;  "  and  Melinda  caught  up  a  ball  of  yarn,  and  began  twirl- 
ing it  round,  in  illustration  of  her  theory. 

"  Dear  me,  there  goes  my  nice  yarn  into  the  cream  !  What 
awful  fools  there  are  in  this  world !  Do  you  s'pose  that  I  Ve 
lived  sixty  years  in  this  world  and  stood  on  my  head  half  the 
time  without  knowing  it  ?  It  stands  to  reason  there  is  no 
such  thing.  What  in  the  name  of  wonder  would  come  of  us 


304         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

all  if  the  world  did  turn  over  ?  Every  dish  on  my  shelves  there 
would  be  smashed  into  inch  pieces  !  " 

"  Why,  aunt,  I  supposed  no  one  doubted  the  fact.  As  to 
standing  on  your  head  and  breaking  your  dishes,  all  that  can 
be  philosophically  " — 

"  Lindy,  Lindy  Button,  I  care  nothing  about  your  floso- 
phy !  What  I  do  know  I  know  for  sartin.  If  you  had 
studied  your  Bible  more,  you  wouldn't  be  so  ignorant. 
Did  n't  Joshua  command  the  sun  to  stand  still  ?  and  would 
he  have  done  that  if  it  had  not  been  a  moving  ?  I  guess 
Joshua,  the  son  of  Nun,  knew  as  much  as  some  folks  now-a- 
days ! " 

"  But,  aunt  "— 

"  Silence !  Don't  let  me  hear  any  more  such  heathenish 
notions !  I  wonder  how  sister  Rachel  could  let  any  one  put 
such  dreadful  things  into  a  child's  head.  It  beats  all !  " 

Melinda  had  too  much  of  her  aunt's  spirit  to  have  her 
grandmother  censured  without  an  attempt  at  vindication. 
But  this  course  only  made  the  old  lady  more  caustic  and 
peremptory.  They  did  not  take  kindly  to  each  other.  Me- 
linda had  a  quick  and  loving  appreciation  of  beauty,  —  Aunt 
Eunice  saw  nature  only  in  a  potato  patch  or  field  of  turnips. 
In  her  view  everything  was  useless  that  did  not  directly  min- 
ister to  physical  needs  or  fill  a  purse.  As  to  spiritual  needs, 
she  did  not  recognize  any  as  legitimate  save  such  as  could  be 
amply  satisfied  by  reciting  the  catechism  and  listening  to  two 
sermons  on  the  Sabbath.  Therefore  she  forbade  all  the  girl's 
attempts  to  adorn  the  ample  door-yard  with  shrubbery,  and 
made  endless  war  on  all  such  things  as  "  briars  and  weeds 
stuck  into  pots  to  clutter  up  the  house ;  "  saying  she  felt  it 
her  "  bounden  duty  to  break  her  of  such  shiftless  habits." 

With  Uncle  Jonas  the  girl  was  on  better  terms.  To  him 
her  young  face  was  like  a  sunbeam  in  the  wide  old  house. 
He  really  liked  her ;  and  though  he  was  not  blind  to  her 
faults,  he  always  had  some  word  in  palliation.  He  was  one 


MELINDA   DUTTOH.  305 

"of  those  kind  souls  who  find  it  difficult  to  frown,  or  believe 
aught  but  good  of  their  fellow-beings.  Melinda  became 
unconsciously  attached  to  him.  He  would  have  made  it  all 
sunshine  in  the  house ;  but  though,  in  reply  to  his  sister's 
daily  catalogue  of  the  girl's  faults  and  misdemeanors,  he  spoke 
many  calm,  wise  words,  the  clouds  would  stay. 

The  old  lady  had  limited  her  niece's  society  to  a  few  fami- 
lies for  whom  she  had  a  particular  regard.  But  the  girl  soon 
grew  weary  of  these  —  pronouncing  the  girls  "  animated 
churns,"  and  the  young  men  more  stupid  than  their  oxen. 
Not  far  from  the  Dudley  farm,  though  on  a  more  frequented 
road,  lived  Mr.  Hatton,  the  father  of  Tim  Hatton,  the  bank- 
rupt, whom  Aunt  Eunice  denounced  daily  with  inexhaustible 
bitterness.  It  was  shrewdly  suspected  that  the  great  leathern 
pocket-book  in  which  she  kept  her  deposits  was  minus  sev- 
eral hundreds  through  Tim's  failure.  However  this  might 
be,  there  was  no  reason  to  doubt  her  sincerity  when  she 
declared  that  she  "  e'enamost  hated  the  whole  bilin'  on 
'em  !  " 

Melinda  occasionally  saw  the  Hatton  girls  at  meeting. 
Their  dress  and  manners  indicated  pretensions  to  fashion  quite 
above  those  of  the  families  she  was  accustomed  to  visit,  and 
she  wished  to  make  their  acquaintance,  partly  because  she 
expected  to  find  more  in  common  with  them  than  with  the 
others,  and  partly  from  a  strong  desire  to  contradict  Aunt 
Eunice,  and  have  her  own  way.  Accident  favored  her ;  they 
met  at  the  village  store,  whither  she  sometimes  accompanied 
Uncle  Jonas.  The  young  clerk  introduced  them,  and,  in  a 
few  moments,  they  had  commenced  an  ardent  intimacy.  They 
were  pleased  with  her,  and  she  readily  promised  to  call  on 
them  to  meet  their  brother's  wife,  who  was  a  Middletown 
woman,  and  knew  several  of  Melinda 's  friends. 

She  had  called  on  the  Hattons  several  times  before  Aunt 
Eunice  was  aware  of  it ;  then  followed  a  scene  of  bitter 
reproaches  and  galling  hints  of  dependence  on  one  side,  and 
26* 


306          LEAVES  FROM  TUB  TUBE  IODRASYL. 

wilful,  unflinching  obstinacy  on  the  other.  Henceforth  Me- 
linda  threw  aside  all  seeming  restraint  or  respect  for  her 
aunt's  commands,  and  even  Uncle  Jonas  began  to  view  her 
character  with  serious  apprehensions.  Had  Aunt  Eunice 
been  guided  by  a  more  intelligent  appreciation  of  the  girl's 
mind,  or  more  largely  furnished  with  the  wisdom  of  winning 
souls,  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  But  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  her  own  shortcomings,  of  course,  and  laid  all  the 
blame  on  her  niece,  whom,  she  said,  "  a  bad  bringing-up  had 
completely  spoiled."  So,  when  winter  came  with  its  lonely 
sights  and  sounds,  Melinda  grew  more  and  more  unhappy  and 
dissatisfied,  and  longed  to  get  away. 

One  evening,  as  she  sat  moodily  watching  the  patches  of 
snow  as  they  slid  from  the  boughs  of  a  hemlock  tree  near  the 
window,  she  was  startled  by  the  unusual  sound  of  sleigh-bells 
in  the  lane.  Presently  a  sleigh  paused  before  the  door,  and 
a  gentleman  sprang  out,  whom  she  at  once  recognized  as  a 
Mr.  Langley  whom  she  had  known  in  Middletown.  He  was, 
at  present,  clerk  in  a  large  wholesale  store  in  New  York. 
He  was  spending  a  few  days  with  some  friends  in  the  village, 
and,  hearing  that  Melinda  was  in  the  place,  had  called  to  see 
her.  She  was  delighted  with  this  mark  of  attention ;  he  was 
handsome,  fashionable,  agreeable,  and  conversant  with  all  the 
details  of  that  life  for  which  she  so  ardently  pined.  He 

called  frequently  during  his  stay  in  M ,  took  her  to  ride, 

or  whiled  away  the  hours  by  her  side,  and  soon  read  in  her 
manner  that  tale  which  no  man  ever  reads  with  indifference. 
At  first  this  knowledge  awoke  no  feeling  but  gratified  vanity. 
But  soon  other  feelings  began  to  unite  with  this,  and,  guided 
by  motives  which  he  did  not  stop  to  analyze,  he  continued  the 
intimacy,  until  her  whole  soul  was  bound  up  in  him.  His 
visits  were  very  disagreeable  to  Aunt  Eunice,  who,  partly 
from  instinct  and  partly  from  prejudice,  disliked  him.  But 
she  did  not  remonstrate  wisely,  nor  even  show  any  of  that 
maternal  wisdom  that  is  so  well  versed  in  the  mysteries  of 


MJZLINDA  BUTTON.  307 

womanhood.  Melinda  refused  to  give  up  Langley,  and  began 
to  meet  him  by  stealth. 

"  Full  oft  they  met,  as  dawn  and  twilight  meet 
In  northern  climes  ;  she  full  of  growing  day, 
As  he  of  darkness,"— 

until  —  but  why  need  I  say  what  followed  ?  It  was  the  old 
story — old  as  passion  and  time.  From  the  fresh,  up-gushing 
fountain  of  her  heart  there  arose  a  mist  of  golden  splendor, 
through  which  she  failed  to  see  the  heartlessness  and  selfish- 
ness of  him  in  whom  she  trusted.  She  loved,  was  deceived, 
led  astray  and  •  destroyed ;  but  no,  not  entirely,  not  forever 
destroyed. ' 

It  was  only  when  she  found  herself  deserted,  miserable, 
suffering,  destitute,  and  an  outcast  in  a  distant  city,  that  the 
delusion  utterly  vanished.  Then  she  saw  that  the  halo  of 
light  in  which  her  eyes  had  been  dazzled  was  but  a  reflection 
from  her  own  passionate  nature,  and  in  her  misery  and  utter 
self-abasement  she  longed  to  die.  Then  it  was,  with  the 
blush  of  shame  on  her  cheek  and  its  keener  burnings  in  her 
heart,  that  she  began  to  feel  that  her  old  relatives,  in  spite 
of  their  peculiarities,  had  been  her  only  true  friends. 

Never  had  the  old  farm-house  known  such  a  commotion 
beneath  its  roof  as  on  the  morning  succeeding  Melinda's 
flight.  At  first  the  old  people  could  not  believe  her  gone  ; 
and,  when  they  could  no  longer  doubt  it,  they  were  filled  with 
anxiety,  dismay  and  grief.  Aunt  Eunice  spoke  her  indigna- 
tion, weeping  the  while  with  heartfelt  sorrow;  and  Uncle 
Jonas,  with  great  .misgivings,  endeavored  to  hope  that  all 
might  yet  be  well. 

More  than  a  year  passed,  and  nothing  was  heard  from  Me- 
linda beyond  a  few  vague  rumors.  Everything  at  the  old 
house  had  settled  into  its  habitual  gait,  when  one  evening,  as 
Uncle  Jonas  seated  himself  by  the  candle-stand,  he  said  : 

"Eunice,  hand  me  my  spectacles;    Joe  Page's  boy  has 


308         LEAVES  FBOM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

brought  me  a  letter  from  the  store.  From  Esq.  Gleason,  I 
s'pose,  —  something  about  the  deeds  for  the  grist-mill." 

She  took  the  letter  up  while  he  arranged  his  glasses,  but 
laid  it  down  with  a  contemptuous  — 

"  I  wonder  if  he  calls  that  thing  a  J  ?  I  vum,  I  can  do 
better  myself!  Squire  Page's  writing  was  as  plain  as  print. 
But  now-a-days,  when  folks  pretend  to  know  everything,  their 
larnin'  is  like  Cinda  Jones'  flannel,  all  thrums.  Now  I  think 
on  t,  Jonas,  I  want  you  to  get  me  some  walnut  bark  in  the 
morning.  I  want  to  color  my  blanket  yarn." 

He*was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  letter  to  heed  her  remarks. 
She  caught  a  word  or  two  occasionally,  as  he  read  on,  pro- 
nouncing each  word  in  an  audible  whisper,  as  was  his  habit. 
At  length,  she  interrupted  him  : 

"What's  that,  Jonas?  Who's  destitute?  What  the 
posset  ails  you,  man?  John  Doolittle  hasn't  failed,  has 
he?" 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  in  very  tremulous  tones.  "  It 's  about 
Lindy,  —  poor  child  !  " 

"  Lindy  !  you  don't  say,  Lindy !  What  of  her  ?  Where 
is  she  ?  —  is  that  letter  from  her  ?  " 

"  Read  it,"  he  replied. 

"  What,  I  read  such  writing  as  that !  I  can't  make  head 
nor  tail  to  it.  It 's  worse  than  goose-tracks.  Bead  it  your- 
self, Jonas." 

He  read  the  letter  aloud.  It  was  written,  without  Melinda's 
knowledge,  by  a  person  who  had  known  her  in  Middletown, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  her  subsequent  history.  It 
gave  a  touching  account  of  her  present  condition,  and  pleaded 
earnestly  with  Uncle  Jonas  to  go  to  her,  forgive  her,  and  take 
her  back.  Uncle  Jonas'  voice  grew  husky,  and  it  was  not 
without  considerable  swallowing  and  clearing  of  his  throat, 
that  he  read  the  note  to  the  end.  In  Aunt  Eunice's  heart  the 
fountain  of  pride  was  still  quite  as  deep  as  the  fountain  of 
pity,  and  she  exclaimed  : 


MELINDA   DUTTON.  309 

"  There,  Jonas,  it  has  turned  out  just  exactly  as  I  always 
said  it  would.  The  minute  I  set  my  eyes  on  that  feller, 
Langley,  I  knew  he  was  a  good-for-nothing  scamp,  and  I  told 
Lindy  so  over  and  over  again ;  but  I  might  as  well  have 
talked  to  the  east  wind.  She  has  made  her  own  bed,  and 
now  she  must  lie  on  it.  She  has  found  out  now,  I  guess,  who 
knows  best ! " 

The  old  man  sat  in  deep  thought,  slowly  folding  the  letter 
and  saying  to  himself: 

"  Poor  child ! — her  mother  died  when  she  was  such  a  little 
girl.  I  'm  afraid  we  were  too  hard  with  her.  She  was  not  used 
to  our  ways,  —  and,  then,  she  was  so  good  sometimes.  Poor 
dear,  what  will  become  of  her  ?  "  He  seemed  weighing  some 
great  question ;  at  length  he  arose,  and  both  his  looks  and 
words  evinced  that  the  decision  was  made. 

"  Eunice,"  he  said,  "  you  may  put  me  up  a  mouthful  of 
something  to  eat,  and  get  my  tother  clothes  ready,  for  it 's  a 
considerable  of  a  long  way  to  New  York,  and  I  shall  want  to 
start  pretty  early.  I  '11  just  step  over  to  neighbor  Page's  and 
get  Joe  to  come  over  and  look  after  the  cattle  and  do  chores 
while  I  am  gone." 

"Why,  Jonas  Dudley !  you  don't  mean  to  go  to  New  York ! 
How  are  you  to  find  the  way  ?  You  '11  get  lost,  and  robbed, 
and  murdered  !  And  what  can  we  do  with  Lindy,  here  ? 
How  can  she  ever  look  anybody  in  the  face  again  ?  " 

"  We  '11  treat  her  kindly,  Eunice,  and  do  our  duty  by  her, 
as  I  'm  afraid  we  did  not  when  she  was  here.  And  if  she  is 
a  good  girl  and  behaves  herself  now,  I  tell  you,  she  sha'n't  be 
put  upon  by  anybody.  She  's  got  sadly  out  of  the  way,  and, 
mayhaps,  we  have  our  share  of  blame  for  it.  Think  of  the 
poor,  young  thing  dying  among  strangers !  and  remember  our 
blessed  Saviour  had  words  of  peace  and  forgiveness  for  those 
worse  than  she." 

Aunt  Eunice  was  softened.  "  Sure  enough  ;  I  wonder  how 
I  could  forget  His  example,  a  minute.  But  it  cut  me  to  the 


<J10  LEAVES  FROM   THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

heart  to  have  Lindy  turn  out  so  dreadfully.  May-be  I  was 
testy,  too,  and  did  n't  have  as  much  patience  as  I  ought ;  but 
you  shall  bring  her  home,  Jonas,  and  I  don't  care  if  folks  talk 
till  their  tongues  blister." 

She  was  thoroughly  roused  by  Melinda's  need  of  pity,  and, 
long  after  Uncle  Jonas  was  asleep,  she  was  still  up,  busily 
engaged  in  making  preparations  for  his  journey  —  prepara- 
tions that  would  have  sufficed  for  a  journey  to  Oregon. 

It  is  well  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  sorrow.  Aunt  Eunice 
had  an  intense  family  pride,  and  an  intense  scorn  for  all  such 
erring  ones  as  Melinda,  and  she  felt  these  things  as  women 
frequently  feel  them ;  but  now,  attacked  as  she  was  from  a 
new.  quarter,  they  were  completely  broken  down  and  dis- 
comfited. 

She  went  about  her  household  affairs,  reflecting  upon  the 
influences  under  which  Melinda  had  grown  from  a  child,  and 
with  a  growing  feeling  of  self-accusation  as  to  the  circum- 
stances under  which  she  went  astray,  until  there  was  born  in 
her  heart  a  larger  sympathy.  New  light  and  warmth  gushed 
in;  and  the  "winged  seed  dropped  down  from  paradise,'1 
which  had  lain  so  long  smothered,  started  into  sudden  and 
rapid  growth,  rooting  out  many  of  the  strong,  rank-  weeds. 

When  the  day  fixed  for  their  arrival  came,  she  was  rest- 
lessly busy  in  perfecting  the  minutest  preparation  for  the 
invalid.  Once  or  twice,  when  everything  seemed  in  readi- 
ness, she  drew  out  her  wheel  and  tried  to  spin.  But  the  flax 
would  slip  from  the  distaff,  and  the  thread  catch  in  the  fliers, 
until,  half  angry  with  herself,  she  put  it  away,  and  piled 
up  nearly  half  a  load  of  wood  in  the  capacious  chimney 
corners. 

At  last,  while  she  was  yet  iu  the  chamber  doing  something 
to  add  to  her  arrangements,  the  joyful  bark  of  the  old  dog 
announced  their  approach.  She  hastened  down,  and  met 
Jonas  as  he  entered  the  house,  bearing  his  shrinking,  sob- 
bing niece  in  his  arms,  as  he  would  have  borne  a  little  child. 


MELINDA  BUTTON.  311 

"  Heaven  be  praised,  Jonas,  you  've  got  back  alive  and 
brought  our  child  with  you !  "  she  cried.  "  I  've  had  the 
fidgets  about  you,  Lindy  ;  —  child,  don't  cry  so  !  I  'm  proper 
glad  to  see  you ;  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  one  in  my 
life ! "  she  added,  as  Melinda  hid  her  face  in  her  cloak,  and 
sobbed  still  more  bitterly.  "  Let  me  take  off  your  cloak, 
child." 

"  Glad  to  see  me,  aunt !  "  said  the  poor  girl,  attempting  to 
look  up.  "  Can  you,  indeed,  forgive  me  ?  —  forgive  all  the 
sorrow  and  distress  I  have  caused  you  ?  0,  you  are  too 
good !  " 

"No,  not  good;  —  the  Lord  knoweth,  not  good.  I've 
been  to  blame.  If  I  had  been  a  true  mother  to  you,  I  don't 
believe  you  would  have  gone  astray.  But  I  '11  do  better, 
now ;  and  you  '11  do  better,  and  may  the  Lord  forgive  us  all ! 
But,  that  Langley  —  I  shall  hate  him  as  long  as  I  live  and 
breathe ! " 

Aunt  Eunice  proceeded  to  untie  the  girl's  hood>  and  Melin- 
da's  tears  fell  fast  on  her  hands,  as  she  said  : 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  aunt !  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  for 
this!" 

"  It  has  blessed  me  already,  child,  in  showing  me  my  errors 
and  bringing  you  back  to  us.  I  should  have  remembered  that 
you  had  neither  father  nor  mother.  But  I  '11  try  to  be  a 
mother  to  you  now,  Lindy."  Aunt  Eunice's  tears  came  fast, 
and  she  drew  down  her  glasses  and  said  to  Uncle  Jonas,  "  Do 
open  that  entry  door,  Jonas.  It  smokes  here  enough  to  put 
one's  eyes  out.  It 's  that  pesky  back-stick ;  I  knew  it  would 
smoke  when  I  put  it  on." 

Many  weeks  passed  before  Melinda  was  able  to  leave  her 
room.  Had  there  been  no  change  in  Aunt  Eunice's  manner, 
there  would  have  been  a  total  change  in  her  sense  of  it ;  for,  in 
her  experience  of  suffering,  she  had  learned  wisdom.  But 
Aunt  Eunice  was  changed ;  she  strove  hard  to  overcome  her 
fretfulness  and  be  considerate  and  kind.  Melinda  had  pre- 


312         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

pared  herself  for  the  severest  reproaches,  and  this  unusual 
tenderness,  that  avoided  even  the  mention  of  her  error  and 
disgrace,  was,  as  she  said,  "  too  much."  Poor  girl !  she  felt 
these  words  and  looks  to  be  the  good  angels  that  were 


" To  breathe  away 

The  dost  o'  the  heart  with  holy  air." 

She  came  forth  to  the  world  a  new  creature.  Her  saddened 
woman's  nature,  whose  crown  had  fallen,  made  itself  a  beauti- 
ful wreath  of  the  flowers  of  faith,  humility  and  patience,  which 
suffering  had  caused  to  spring  along  her  path.  Serene  and 
strong  in  her  love  for  all  that  was  good  and  beautiful,  she 
became  to  her  old  relatives  a  ministering  angel,  and  watched 
and  tended  their  old  age  with  unwearied  love  and  care.  And 
even  Aunt  Eunice  came  to  see  how  divine  it  is  to  have  com- 
passion on  the  sinning,  —  to  save  the  soul  that  is  ready  to 
perish. 

It  may  not  be  amiss  to  add,  that  on  the  death  of  her  old 
relatives,  when  their  great  estate  became  hers,  Henry  Langley 
again  appeared,  and  sought  to  make  her  his  wife.  But,  to  his 
surprise  and  confusion,  he  did  not  find  the  thoughtless  girl  that 
his  arts  had  seduced,  and  was  refused  with  that  lofty  scorn 
which  every  such  villain  deserves.  Firmly  and  patiently  she 
walked  the  ways  of  life,  doing  all  things  nobly,  because  she 
communed  with  the  Spirit,  and  believed  in  Him  whom  to  know 
"  is  life  eternal." 


X. 

THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN. 


"  THERE  —  there  —  she  has  gone  —  vanished !  0,  Annie ! 
how  could  you  waken  me  ?  "  exclaimed  Richard  Fanshaw,  as 
he  buried  his  elbow  in  the  rich  moss  on  which  he  lay,  and, 
half  raising  himself,  gazed  with  a  look  of  reproach  and  dis- 
appointment on  the  laughing  face  of  a  fair  girl  of  some  fifteen 
summers,  who,  in  the  very  spirit  of  mischief,  stood  dipping  a 
graceful  wand  of  young  birch  in  the  limpid  waters  of  the 
spring  at  her  feet,  preparatory  to  giving  him  a  second  sprink- 
ling. 

"  Wake  you,  Richard !  "  she  replied,  with  a  musical  laugh ; 
"why,  your  eyes  were  wide  open — as  wide  as  Mr.  Chip's 
yonder,"  she  continued,  casting  a  whole  shower  of  bright 
drops  at  a  squirrel,  that  peered  at  them  with  his  round,  bright 
eyes,  from  a  hole  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  hickory,  a  few  paces 
distant. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  was  fast  asleep,"  said  the  young  man,  or 
rather  boy,  for  he  coald  scarcely  have  seen  twenty  years,  in  a 
tone  of  petulant  impatience;  "  and  your  ill-timed  mischief  has 
destroyed  the  most  beautiful  dream  that  ever  blessed  the 
heart  of  man." 

The  young  girl  drew  near  him,  and,  laying  her  small  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  looked  into  his  disturbed  face,  until  the  ex- 
pression of  mirthfulness  that  a  moment  before  had  dimpled 
over  her  own,  gave  place  to  one  of  wondering  sadness. 
27 


314  LEAVES   raOJl   THE   TftEE   IGDKASYL. 


"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Richard,"  she  said,  ^  angry  Vith 
your  own  little  Annie." 

For  a  second,  Richard  Fanshaw  returned  her  earnest 
glance  ;  then  a  smile  broke  round  his  mouth,  and  stole  upward 
to  his  eyes,  chasing  away  every  trace  of  his  petulant  mood. 

"  No,  no,  Annie,  I  am  not  angry  —  only  sorry  that  you 
awoke  me  so  soon.  I  was  wrong  to  speak  so  hastily  ;  but  sit 
down  here,  you  little  mischief!  "  he  continued  playfully,  draw- 
ing her  down  by  his  side,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  my  dream. 
There,  sit  where  "  — 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  bewildered 
surprise. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  now,  Richard  ?  Are  you  going  to 
sleep  again,  or  do  you  expect  to  put  me  to  sleep  ?  "  asked  the 
girl,  archly. 

"  Hush  !  —  sit  still,  Annie.  Do  not  stir,"  he  replied,  in 
almost  a  whisper.  "  There  —  now  the  resemblance  is  wonder- 
ful. I  could  almost  think  it  was  she." 

"  She  !  —  who  ?  "  said  Annie,  starting  up  and  looking  round 
as  if  she  expected  to  see  a  third  person  peeping  from  behind 
some  one  of  the  forest-trees. 

"  The  Maiden  of  the  Fountain,  child.  There  was  some- 
thing in  your  face,  just  then,  when  the  slant  sunbeams  from 
between  the  branches  of  yon  old  maple  fell  on  your  head,  that 
reminded  me  strongly  of  her.  There,  now,  those  mischievous 
dimples  have  spoiled  it  all.  But  sit  down  and  watch  the 
bright  water  while  I  tell  you  all  about  it. 

"  I  had  traced  the  '  branch  '  from  the*  notch  '  down  to  the 
mill-dam,  Annie,  in  search  of  trout,  and,  tired  of  my  unsuc- 
cessful morning's  sport  (if  sport  it  can  be  called),  I  struck 
across  the  woods  for  home.  I  reached  the  spring,  and,  after 
slaking  my  thirst,  lay  down  under  the  old  birch,  and  watched 
the  sunbeams  that  came  prying  through  every  nook  and 
crevice  in  the  thick  green  leaves,  peering  up  the  ravine  yon- 
der, as  if  haunted  by  a  sense  of  something  far  more  beautiful 


THE  MAIDEN   OF  THE  FOUNTAIN.  315 

than  they  had  yet  discovered, — just  like  me,  Annie,  —  and 
the  beautiful,  and,  in  many  cases,  grotesque  grouping  of  the 
old  trees  yonder,  with  their  deep,  motionless  shadows  changed 
to  delicate  mosaic  by  the  restless  fingers  of  the  saucy  sun- 
beams. Then  I  mused  on  those  beautiful  fables  of  ancient 
Greece,  of  which  I  told  you  the  other  day ;  of  that  simple 
faith  that  peopled  forest  and  stream  with  living  spirits,  thus 
recognizing  its  own  intimate  relations  with  Nature,  until  my 
vivid  fancy  re-created1  that  time  in  all  its  freshness,  and 
peopled  this  spring  and  woods  with  the  shapes  of  many  a 
'  fallen  old  divinity.'  I  fancied  that  I  saw  more  than  one  fair 
face  peering  shyly  from  the  green  depths  of  yonder  clump  of 

young  chestnuts,  and but  you  laugh,  Annie.  This  is  all 

nonsense  to  you."  4 

' '  Not  exactly,  Richard.  I  do  not  know  much  about  Gre- 
cian mythology,  to  be  sure ;  but  sometimes,  when  I  have  come 
along  through  the  woods  from  school,  I  have  fancied  that  the 
trees  were  talking  to  each  other,  and  have  stopped  to  listen ; 
but,  though  I  stood  very  still,  I  could  never  catch  a  word; 
for,  when  I  stopped,  they  became  silent,  and  seemed  watching 
and  waiting  for  me  to  go  on.  But  tell  me  more,  Richard." 

With  her  hand  in  his,  and  her  clear  eyes  raised  to  his  face, 
the  young  girl,  listened  while  Richard  Fanshaw  went  on  to 
tell  how,  busy  with  these  fancies,  he  fell  asleep  and  wandered 
in  the  wondrous  realm  of  Dreamland,  through  regions  of  en- 
chanting loveliness,  steeping  his  soul  in  that  bewildering 
atmosphere,  and  revelling  in  pleasure,  until  he  well-nigh 
forgot  his  high  aspirations,  that  would  have  plucked  the  stars 
from  heaven.  How,  suddenly  and  swiftly  as  the  shooting  of 
a  star,  the  memory  of  them  came  upon  him,  filling  his  soul 
with  unrest  and  disquiet,  and,  haunted  by  a  sense  of  imper- 
fection and  loneliness,  he  fled  onward  through  a  region  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  one  he  had  left ;  arid,  gloomy  and 
barren ;  destitute  of  vegetation,  save  where  rank,  poisonous 
water-plants  grew  around  pools  of  green,  slimy  water,  that  lay 


316         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  JQDRASYL. 

sweltering  beneath  the  lurid  sun.  Ugly,  fiend-like  faces 
grinned  at  him  from  the  murky  atmosphere,  and  clutched  at 
him  with  their  long,  bony  fingers  whenever  he  lost  his  foot- 
hold in  th.e  treacherous  sands,  or  slipped  by  the  dreary  pools 
of  water.  Their  mocking  tones  were  in  his  ears,  filling  him 
with  terror ;  but  above  them  all  sounded  one  more  fearful  still, 
for  it  seemed  like  the  voice  of  his  own  heart  driving  him 
onward  to  destruction.  A  terrible  thirst  consumed  him  ;  his 
steps  began  to  falter,  and  his  eyes  to  grow  dim ;  but  his  hear- 
ing, like  that  of  many  dying  people,  became  more  acute,  and 
he  could  still  hear  the  mocking  voices  and  resolve  the  dis- 
cordant sounds  into  words.  One  and  all  they  cried,  "  Fool ! 
dreamer!  truth  is  a  fable.  Purity  and  goodness  are  idle 
dreams !  Enjoy  the  pres«nt,  for  there  is  no  future !  "  while 
that  strangely-familiar  voice  kept  repeating  the  words  in  low, 
but  distinctly  audible  whispers,  as  if  it  mused  upon  their 
import.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  yield  to  their  influence,  his 
ear  caught  the  sweet  murmur  of  forest  leaves,  and  a  breath 
of  pure,  fresh  air  fell  on  his  throbbing  brow.  His  weary 
heart  recognized  them  as  heaven-sent  messengers,  and,  rally- 
ing his  strength,  he  sprang  forward  in  the  direction  from  which 
they  came. 

The  fearful  voices  grew  fainter,  dying  away  like  the  wail- 
ing winds  of  autumn ;  his  step  grew  firmer ;  his  eyesight 
clearer,  until  every  trace  of  that  hideous  landscape  disap- 
peared, and  there  lay  around  him  a  scene  of  exquisite  beauty, 
yet  widely  different  from  the  one  that  had  so  enchanted  him 
at  first.  That  atmosphere  had  enervated  while  it  intoxicated ; 
but  this  was  pure  and  healthful  as  the  kiss  of  a  gentle  mother. 
Suddenly,  he  came  to  a  crystal  fountain,  shaded  by  a  drooping 
birch,  and  set  round  with  broad,  cool  stones ;  in  short,  it  was 
very  much  like  the  spring  at  their  feet,  save  that  the  waters 
were  far  clearer,  and  the  yellow  sand  at  the  bottom  of  a  far 
brighter  golden  hue. 

How,  choking  with  thirst,  he  eagerly  knelt  on  the  brink 


THE   MAIDEN   Off   THE   FOUNTAIN.  317 

but  just  as  his  greedy  lip  neared  the  water,  a  wondrously- 
beautiful  maiden  stood  before  him.  Whether  she  rose  from 
the  fountain,  as  the  agitation  of  sand  at  the  bottom  seemed  to 
indicate,  or  stepped  from  the  bole  of  the  old  tree,  he  could 
not  tell.  With  one  hand  she  gathered  her  loose  robe  about 
her,  while  in  the  other  she  held  a  few  broad  leaves  of  the 
Egyptian  Calla,  encircling  the  wand-like  stalk  with  its  creamy 
spatha  and  blossom.  With  this  she  motioned  him  back,  and, 
in  tones  far  sweeter  than  the  murmur  of  the  waters,  though 
strongly  like  it,  she  said : 

"  Mortal,  what  brings  you  to  my  fountain  ?  " 

With  an  effort  to  loosen  his  parched  tongue,  he  replied : 

"  A  weary,  thirsty  heart." 

"  Drink,  and  thirst  no  more,"  she  replied,  folding  one  of 
the  broad  calla  leaves  in  the  shape  of  a  cup,  and  placing  it 
in  his  hand. 

Bichard  Fanshaw  paused,  and  sat  for  some  moments  look- 
ing thoughtfully  into  the  spring. 

Little  Annie,  who  watched  his  countenance  intently,  nestled 
closer  to  his  side,  and  pressed  the  hand  that  still  clasped  hers, 
as  if  to  remind  him  of  her  presence. 

"  I  saw  her  no  more,"  he  said*,  at  length,  "  for,  just  as  I 
raised  the  cup  to  my  lips,  your  love  of  mischief  awoke  me. 
Yet  she  must  have  been  a  real  maiden,"  he  continued,  "  for 
her  hand  was  soft  and  warm  as  yours,  Annie  ;  and,  when  her 
fingers  met  mine,  as  she  gave  me  the  cup,  a  strange,  indescrib- 
able feeling  run  through  my  whole  frame ;  as  if  my  heart 
suddenly  gushed  over  with  happiness,  just  as  the  water  there 
gushes  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  spring." 

We  need  hardly  say  that  Richard  Fanshaw  was  a  dreamer 
—  a  dweller  in  the  beautiful  land  of  shadows.  The  love  of 
beauty,  from  the  undefined  yearnings  of  childhood,  had  grown 
with  his  growth,  until  it  had  become  to  him  a  passion  and  a 
hope  ;  and,  as  he  walked  homeward,  along  the  winding  forest- 
path,  with  his  arm  thrown  protectingly  around  the  shoulders 
27* 


Q18         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TBKE  IGDRASYL. 

of  his  young  companion,  still  dwelling  on  his  dream,  there  was 
a  light  in  his  dark  eye,  and  an  earnestness,  an  exultation  in 
his  tones,  that  told,  far  more  plainly  than  his  words,  how 
deeply  his  heart  accepted  the  dream  as  a  prophecy  that  this 
hope  would  yet  become  a  certainty. 

It  would  be  not  only  a  curious,  but  an  interesting  study,  to 
trace  out  the  circumstances  that  exercise  a  controlling  influ- 
ence in  the  formation  of  such  characters  as  that  of  Richard 
Fanshaw.  Of  course,  the  estimate  must  ever  be  partial, 
because  conjectural,  but  we  are  disposed  to  think  that  if  those 
who  are  so  ready  to.  condemn,  were  to  take  the  study  up,  or 
even  to  look  into  the  history  of  their  own  inner  life,  they 
would  gain  some  new  lessons  in  psychology,  and  partake  some- 
what more  largely  of  that  divine  charity  "  that  thinketh  no 
evil." 

We  have  said  that  young  Fanshaw  was  imaginative ;  but, 
until  now,  nothing  had  occurred  to  give  shape  and  coloring  to 
the  vague  reveries  that  thronged  his  busy  brain.  But  this 
dream  —  this  egeria  of  the  fountain  —  came  like  the  angel  of 
Bethesda  to  stir  the  slumbering  depths  of  his  heart,  and  fill  it 
with  passionate  longings  and  delicious  unrest. 

That  form,  those  eyes,  c*lear,  dark  and  deep  as  mountain 
springs,  haunted  him  by  day  and  night,  and  became  identified 
with  all  the 

"  Hopes,  dreams,  desires  of  wild  ambition  born, 
Whose  dazzling  light  athwart  his  early  morn 
Streamed  radiantly,  and  on  his  spirit  fell 
Like  a  fire-baptism." 

Each  day  deepened  the  conviction  that  he  was  born  to 
achieve  a  lofty  destiny,  and  he  brooded  over  the  thought 
until  the  quiet  monotony  of  Maplehurst  became  irksome  to 
him.  With  a  crowd  of  proud  aspirations  rioting  in  his  heart, 
he  kissed  the  sobbing  Annie,  his  pet  and  plaything  from  her 
birth,  took  the  blessing  of  his  dewy-eyed  mother,  and,  eager 


THE   MAIDEN   OF  THE   FOUNTAIN.  319 

to  forestall  time,  threw  himself  into  the  rushing  current  of 
life. 

We  may  not  follow  him  in  all  his  wanderings  through  the 
world-wide  search  which  his  restless,  haunted  heart  led  him. 
Iceland  and  Italy,  Germany  and  Arabia,  the  wild  Caucasian 
regions  and  those  of  "  far  Cathay,"  left  their  cosmopolitan 
influence  upon  him, 

t 

"  Until  the  mother  that  him  bore 
Would  scarce  have  known  her  child." 

We  may  not  number  the  "  shrines  of  beauty  at  which  he 
put  up  prayers,"  —  shrines  before  which  his  yearning  heart 
lay  hushed  in  prophetic  anticipation,  like  the  sea  beneath  the 
rising  moon ;  nor  how  they  all  proved  but  "  summer  pilots 
unto  the  shores  of  nothing." 

Neither  will  we  attempt  to  sound  the  depths  of  error  into 
which  his  impetuous  nature  led  him,  the  consequent  suffering 
and  self-renunciation.  We  love  not  such  records,  and,  there- 
fore, hasten  to  say  that  after  an  absence  of  many  years,  gray 
at  heart,  world-worn,  care-worn,  with  his  ideal  still  unfound, 
and  all  his  lofty  dreams  unrealized,  he  returned  to  his  native 
village,  and  stood  beneath  the  roof  that  sheltered  his  child- 
hood, a  stranger. 

It  is  a  quiet  spot,  —  Our  Village,  —  so  quiet  as  almost  to 
cheat  Father  Time  himself  into  forgetfulness.  Undoubtedly 
a  blank  leaf  or  so  in  the  church  records  had  been  filled  out 
with  births,  deaths  and  marriages  ;  the  old  brown  houses  had 
taken  a  dingier  hue,  and  the  button-woods  before  the  doors 
cast  a  much  broader  shade  than  when  he  left ;  a  railing  had 
been  added  to  the  bridge ;  but  the  old  crossing-pole,  back  of 
his  mother's  house,  was  still  the  same,  even  to  the  patches  of 
green  moss  on  its  crumbling  sides ;  and  the  stepping-stones, 
which  he  had  laid  so  many  years  before,  were  all  in  their 
places,  with  the  clear  water  rippling  around  them,  exactly  as 
of  yore.  But  his  mother  slept  in  the  grave-yard  beyond  the 


320         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

river,  and  his  brother's  gentle  wife  eat  in  her  place,  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  bright-eyed  children,  who  were  ready 
to  hide  their  faces  in  the  folds  of  their  mother's  dress  at  every 
word  and  caress  from  their  dark-visaged,  foreign-looking  uncle. 

The  news  of  his  arrival  flew  with  telegraphic  speed,  and 
old  acquaintances,  curious  to  hear  his  adventures,  and  eager 
to  welcome  him  home,  called  to  see  him,  and  left  the  house 
disappointed.  Instead  of  the  bright-faced,  joyous  youth  they 
remembered,  they  found  a  tall,  dignified-looking  man,  polite 
but  reserved,  and  little  disposed  to  gratify  their  curiosity  by 
becoming  the  hero  of  his  own  story. 

He  heard,  with  more  of  interest  than  he  had  before  mani- 
fested, that  Annie  Bradford  was  still  unmarried,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  could  disengage  himself  from  his  visitors,  he  took  tht 
well-remembered  path  toward  her  dwelling.  He  had  not 
gone  many  rods  before  he  diverged  from  it,  as  if  struck  by 
some  sudden  thought,  and  took  the  more  circuitous  one  that 
led  round  by  the  "  Sibyl's  Spring."  That,  too,  was  unchanged, 
and  he  stood  and  gazed  into  its  clear  depths,  while  old  memo- 
ries gushed  up  from  his  heart  as  rapidly  as  the  bright 
water  from  the  golden  land.  Suddenly  a  light  touch  fell  upon 
his  arm.  He  turned,  and  met  the  clear,  friendly  glance  of 
Annie  Bradford. 

"  Richard ! "  —  "  Annie !  "  —  they  exclaimed  in  the  same 
breath. 

With  a  thoughtful,  yet  eager  look,  as  if  he  found  there  the 
key  to  the  destiny  whose  shadow  had  so  long  lain  upon  his  heart, 
he  gazed  into  those  clear  eyes,  now  deepened  and  intensified 
by  all  the  hopes  of  ripened  womanhood,  that  were  upturned  to 
his,  until  the  white  lids  grew  tremulous,  and  drooped  involun- 
tarily. With  ready  tact,  and  something  of  her  childish  arch  • 
ness,  she  said  : 

"  Have  you  found  her,  —  the  Maiden  of  the  Fountain,  — 
Richard  ?  You  know  you  promised  to  bring  her  with  you 
when  you  returned." 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN.  321 

fle  did  not  reply,  but  kept  his  eyes  riveted  on  her  face,"  as 
n  it  were  the  book  of  fate.  At  length  a  bright  smile,  like  a 
star  from  behind  a  heavy  cloud,  broke  over  his  sunburnt  face, 
and  he  replied : 

"  I  have  found  her,  Annie." 

"Where,  where  is  she,  then?  They  told  me  you  came 
alone." 

Richard  Fanshaw  threw  his  arm  around  her  waist,  "with 
the  familiarity  of  days  long  gone,  and,  drawing  her  forward  a 
step  or  two,  pointed  to  the  image  of  her  own  sweet  face  mir- 
rored in  the  limpid  water. 

"  There,  Annie,  there  !  " 

Again  their  eyes  met,  and  the  object  of  his  long  and  weary 
search  was  accomplished.  His  destiny  was  solved. 

Drawing  her  closer  to  him,  he  continued  : 

"  My  toilsome  search  is  ended,  the  dream  of  my  boyhood 
interpreted.  I  bring  you  but  a  weary,  thirsty  heart.  Will 
you  accept  it,  Annie  ?  " 

Her  reply  was  lower,  but  far  sweeter  to  his  wayworn  heart 
than  the  musical  murmur  of  the  waters.  Once  more  they 
sat,  hand  in  hand,  on  the  green  moss  beneath  the  old  birch- 
tree,  and,  as  Richard  Fanshaw  gazed  on  the  fair  face  resting 
on  his  shoulder,  and  wondered  at  his  stupid  blindness,  he  re- 
peated more  than  once  the  words  of  one  who  has  built  to  her- 
self a  shrine  in  every  loving  heart : 

"  0,  happiness,  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  paths  in  search  of  thee  !  " 


XI 

THE    OLD    MAPLE. 

CHAPTER     I. 

'« I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land." 

"  As  each  person  has  his  own  separate  remembrances,  giving  to  some 
places  an  aspect  and  significance  which  he  alone  can  perceive,  there 
must  be  an  infinite  number  of  pleasing,  mournful,  or  dreadful  alsocia 
tions  spread  over  the  inhabited  earth.". —  Foster's  Essays. 

WAS  it  wholly  the  power  of  which  wise  John  Foster 
speaks,  that  made  the  place  so  sadly  pleasant,  as  I  sat  by  the 
old  maple,  tracing  with  my  fingers  the  seams  in  its  rough 
bark,  counting  the  incisions  through  which  it  had  for  years 
poured  forth  its  life-blood  to  sweeten  the  teas,  if  not  the 
tempers,  of  the  Brae  family,  and — thinking?  Or  was  the 
spell  assisted  by  some  "  fallen  old  divinity  "  hid  in  its  mas- 
sive bole  ?  The  divinity  must  have  had  a  share  in  it,  for  I 
remember  noting  a  low,  musical  murmur  among  the  swelling 
buds  above  me,  that  were  yearning  in  their  velvet  prisons  to 
look  out  into  the  warm  eyes  of  Spring.  Let  us  reverently 
believe  so,  reader  mine,  for  neither  of  us,  I  trust,  belongs  to 
that  painfully  wise  class, 

"  Who  think  all  happy  things  are  dreams, 
Because  they  overstep  the  narrow  bourn 
Of  likelihood." 

It  was  a  pleasant,  sunny  spot,  — just  like  one  of  the  "  wee 
green  neuks  "  you  wot  of,  fair  lady,  in  some  of  the  deep 
vales  of  your  native  state ;  too  tame  to  be  romantic,  too 
quiet  to  interest  hasty  observers,  and. yet  too  sweet  and  dear 


THE  OLD  MAPLE.  323 

to  be  forgotten.  I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Brae,  or  his  son 
John,  who  were  on  'the  knoll  above  me,  ever  thought  of  it 
otherwise  than  as  a  valuable  part  of  their  well-watered  and 
productive  farm.  I  had  not  seen  the  place  for  years,  and 
now  I  felt  that,  for  me,  it  was  written  all  over  with  heart- 
histories. 

And  then  just  over  the  knoll  was  the  old  farm-house,  with 
its  spacious  barns  and  well-thatched  sheep-cotes.  I  wondered 
if  there  were  as  many  swallows'  nests  as  of  yore  clustered 
beneath  the  eaves  or  plastered  to  the  rafters  of  the  barn ; 
arid  if  the  old  wren  still  built  her  nest  in  the  hollow  limb  of 
the  apple-tree  that  overhung  the  great  horse-block  by  the 
gate.  Ah  me !  ^  had  gazed  on  many  a  masterpiece  of  art 
that  seemed  to  glow  with  divine  fire,  and  yet  not  one  of  them 
spoke  to  my  heart  more  deeply  than  that  same  old,  rude, 
misshapen  horse-block.  To  us  children  it  was  a  city  of 
refuge  when  our  happiness  became  too  obstreperous  for  the 
long-suffering  nerves  of  kind  Mrs.  Brae,  or  when,  by  any 
mischance,  a  slice  of  buttered  bread  came  in  too  close  contact 
with  the  floor.  Thus  in  summer  it  was  our  table  and  play- 
room. There  often,  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  the  springs  that 
will  never  come  again,  were  Nelly  Brae  and  I  perched,  with 
a  pile  of  willow  branches,  and  a  broken  penknife  which  we 
owned  between  us.  0,  the  whistles  we  made !  for  we  did 
make  some. perfect  ones,  though  often  unsuccessful ;  and  when, 
after  a  long  attempt,  a  perfect  (that  is,  a  very  noisy)  whistle 
was  finished,  how  proudly  we  sprang  to  our  feet  and  poured 
forth  our  notes  of  triumph  ! 

Do  not  frown ;  for,  believe  me,  we  were  daily  told  to  "  sit 
up  straight  and  behave  like  women."  But,  somehow,  the 
first  puff  of  fresh  air  blew  the  lesson  out  of  our  heads.  And 
besides,  all  sorts  of  funny-looking  rag  babies  lying  about 
bore  witness  that  we  were  sufficiently  feminine.  And  we  had 
dolls,  too  —  real  wax  dolls ;  but,  like  some  other  careful 
mothers,  we  deemed  them  much  too  choice  for  the  touch  of 


324  LEAVES  FROM   TILE  TREE   IGDRASYL. 

common  air.  And  there  was  also  a  whole  set  of  aeorn  tea- 
cups and  saucers  stowed  away  in  the  great  knot-hole  under 
the  second  step  of  the  horse-block,  which  served  us  for  a 
china  closet. 

On  my  right,  as  I  stood  there  communing  with  the  past, 
lay  the  wooded  pasture,  well  known  through  the  neighbor- 
hood as  the  "maple  lot."  I  looked  for  the  narrow  footpath 
by  which  we  were  accustomed  to  reach  the  "  sugar-works  " 
sooner  than  by  the  rather  devious  cart-path.  There  it  was, 
with  its  show  of  tender,  green  grass,  looking  like  a  narrow 
green  ribbon  amid  the  dead,  dry  herbage  of  the  preceding 
summer. 

I  lef$  mJ  seat,  and,  following  the  path^rossed  the  spring 
brook  on  the  identical  old  stepping-stones,  and  stood  on  the 
spot  that  had  so  often  been  the  village  gathering-place  — 
the  very  centre  of  mischief  and  frolic.  It  was  now  sadly 
changed.  The  rude  building  was  gone.  The  rough  furnace 
was  tumbling  down,  and  from  the  rich,  damp  mould  beneath 
sprang  a  tall  sweet-briar.  Ah !  the  glory  had  left  the  old 
sugar-works ! 

Some  of  the  "  sugar-trees "  were  still  standing.     But  I 
missed  the  stately  form  of  many  an  old  friend,  whose  Orphic 
murmurs  gave  me  a  clearer  insight  into  the  mysteries  of 
being  than  I  have  since  gained 
\ 

—  "  from  learned  books, 
Or  study-withered  men." 

The  new,  white  chips  scattered  around  many  of  the  stumps 
showed  some  of  the  trees  had  been  felled  lately.  But  the 
stumps  alone  remained  of  two  that  had  stood  in  front  of  the 
sugar-house,  between  whose  half  unearthed  roots  Nell  and  I 
used  to  spread  our  red  flannel  blankets  for  carpets,  and  ar- 
range our  houses,  when  we  played  "  go  to  see  one  another." 

But  the  ever  kind  Nature,  that  embraces  and  loves  even 
what  man  casts  off,  had  bidden  the  ground-laurel  spread  its 


THE  OLD   MAPLE.  325 

shining  green  leaves  around  the  decaying  stumps,  and  the  sil- 
very brown  umbels  of  the  gnaphalium  crowned  them  with  an 
everlasting  crown. 

Re-crossing  the  brook,  I  met  Mr.  Brae,  and  pointing  to  the 
old  maple  I  expressed  my  joy  to  find  it  still  standing. 

"  Why,  it  is  a  kind  of  crooked  disciple,"  he  replied,  "  and 
might  as  well  be  cut  down.  But,  somehow,  the  children 
always  took  a  kind  of  liking  to  it,  especially  Nelly  and  her 
little  boy.  I  guess  she  was  here  as  often  as  once  a  day  when 
she  was  at  home  last  summer.  And  that  little  rogue,  Harry, 
says  his  mother's  tree  shall  not  be  cut  down." 

Yes,  Nelly  loved  that  old  tree,  and  well  might  its  wide 
shade  seem  to  her  a  consecrated  temple;  for  underneath  its 
spreading  branches -she  first  listened  to  words  and  tones  that 
became  the  charm  of  her  life,  and  which  death  has  no  power 
to  destroy.  • 

But  before  I  "tell  you  all  about  it,"  as  the  children  say, 
I  have  a  word  or  two "  to  offer  touching  Nelly  Brae  herself. 
Were  it  possible  I  would  describe  her  in  such  terms  as  would 
make  her  steal  your  hearts  as  entirely  as  she  did  ours.  I 
might  as  well  attempt  to  describe  the  wind.  Not  that  she 
was  beautiful  —  we  never  thought  of  calling  her  a  beauty ; 
but  she  was  so  wild  and  wayward,  apparently  so  changeful, 
and  yet  so  gentle  and  true,  so  full  of  heart.  Indeed,  she 
was  more  like  a  free,  glad  summer  breeze  than  aught  else  on 
earth ;  and,  like  that,  she  went  wandering  about  the  green 
fields  and  along  the  shining  brooks,  gathering  freshness  and 
fragrance,  while  her  soul  unconsciously  grew  rich  by  daily 
seeking. 

Perhaps  this  waywardness,  this  spirit  of  non-conformity, 
lent  the  spell  that  saved  her  from  becoming  that  most  disa- 
greeable of  all  pets,  a  spoiled  grandchild.  Some  powerful 
influence  was  needed  to  neutralize  the  effect  of  grandmother 
Brae's  overweening  fondness.  Mr.  Brae  was  a  man  of  the 
old  school.  His  notions  of  family  government,  as  manifested 
28 


326  LEAVES   FROM   THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

in  the  training  of  his  own  children,  were  very  strict,  if  not 
always  very  wise.  But  when  he  undertook  to  pursue  the 
same  course  with  little  Nell,  his  heart  turned  traitor. 

When  he  had  cause  to  reprimand  her,  he  invariably  began 
with  a  stern  voice  and  still  sterner  look.  But  he  never  could 
proceed  far  before  her  slight,  willowy  form  would  grow  indis- 
tinct, and  he  would  seem  to  hold  in  his  arms  a  rosy  infant, 
that  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  laughed  and  patted  his  wet 
cheeks,  as  he  bent  over  the  coffin  that  contained  the  dead 
form  of  its  fair  young  mother.  He  would  remember  how  his 
own  brave  boy  died  before  his  child  saw  the  light ;  how, 
after  the  mother  was  laid  by  his  side  in  the  church-yard, 
they  brought  the  baby  to  the  old  farm-house  and  laid  it  in 
the  long-unused  cradle ;  how  they  sat  by  it,  filled  with  heavi- 
ness and  sorrow;  and  how  the  smiles  that  broke  over  its 
face  gradually  kindled  their  minds  to  faith  and  joy.  When 
the  old  man  thought  of  all  this,  and  how  the  child  had  been 
to  them  "  a  smile  from  God  "  to  dispel  the  darkness  from 
their  pathway,  his  brow  would  relax,  his  voice  grow  tremu- 
lous, and  his  censures  all  change  to  blessings. 

Thus  the  child  grew  up  like  a  bright  wild-flower,  planted 
in  some  quaint,  old-fashioned  garden.  She  seemed  to  have 
established  a  secret  correspondence  with  Nature,  for  "  all 
things  talked  thoughts  to  her."  For  her  each  bird,  flower 
and  passing  cloud  seemed  to  have  a  particular  message.  She 
always  spoke  of  them  as  her  birds,  her  flowers,  her  clouds. 
Strange  fancies  of  this  sort  seemed  to  increase  as\she  grew 
older ;  and  even  on  her  wedding  day,  when  I  flung  a  twig  of 
ivy  and  a  handful  of  sage  into  her  lap,  and  laughingly  bade 
her  study  their  meaning,  she  gathered  them  up,  and,  placing 
them  in  her  bosom,  declared  gravely  that  they  should  be  the 
oracles  of  her  household,  and  that  her  first  care  should  be  to 
plant  with  her  own  hand,  around  her  new  abode,  those  em- 
blems of  love  and  virtue. 


THE  OLD  MAPLE.  327 


CHAPltJER     II. 

"  Curse  the  tongue, 

Whence  slanderous  rumor,  like  the  adder's  drop, 
Distils  her  venom,  withering  friendship's  faith, 
Turning  love's  favor."  —  Hillhovse. 

Nelly  Brae  and  I  had  been  playmates  from  infancy.  Our 
homes  were  on  different  roads,  but  we  were  near  neighbors, 
for  the  long,  triangular  tongue  of  land  between  the  roads  was 
narrow,  and  the  well-trodden  path  across  it  showed  plainly 
that  our  families  were  not  strangers  to  each  other.  < 

We  were  still  school-girls  when  Mr.  Markham,  the  new 
pastor,  succeeded  in  awakening  the  people  to  an  interest  in 
church  music,  which  had  been  sadly  neglected  during  the  last 
years  of  good  old  Parson  Mines.  A  liberal  sum  of  money 
was  subscribed,  and  a  committee  appointed  to  arrange  a  sing- 
ing-school. 

A  winter  singing-school  in  New  England !  Who,  that 
draws  breath  beneath  her  changeful  sky,  does  not  feel  his 
heart  beat  quicker  at  those  words !  Not  with  remembered 
pride  of  progress  in  the  heaven-born  science,  but  at  the  mem- 
ory of  pleasant  faces,  merry  greetings,  "  nods  and  becks,  and 
wreathed  smiles,"  and  friendships  formed,  among  which,  per- 
haps, was  that  one  which  grew  to  dear  love,  and  gave  to  him 
the  cherished  one  from  whose  eyes  and  voice  he  has  since 
learned  music  by  heart. 

The  projected  singing-school  became  a  matter  of  absorbing 
interest  to  the  young  people,  when  it  was  announced  that  the 
committee  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  engage  Mr.  Henry 
Wilson,  a  graduate  of  Yale  College,  and  a  personal  friend  of 
Mr.  Markham.  My  parents  were  very  anxious  that  my 
brother  and  I  should  attend  the  singing-school,  but  no  persua- 
sions could  gain  Mrs.  Brae's  consent  to  Nelly's  attendance. 
We  talked  in  vain  of  her  sweet  voice ;  for  whenever  the  old 


328          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL, 

lady  seemed  consenting,  she  would  suddenly  recollect  that 
there  was  "  no  one  to  go  witfc  her,"  for  John  (the  only  son 
remaining  at  home)  would  not  always  come  home  when  she 
did,  and  Dick  and  I,  she  said,  could  not  always  come  round 
that  way,  for  the  fields  would  sometimes  be  full  of  snow. 
Besides,  she  conjured  up  such  horrors  of  colds,  wet  feet,  brain 
fevers,  lung  fevers  and  consumptions,  that  Nell  and  I  gave 
way  in  despair. 

Nelly  was  mortified  and  indignant  at  the  thought  of  being 
kept  at  home  like  a  little  girl,  a  child,  when  she  was  sixteen 
years,  ten  months,  and  I  will  not  undertake  to  say  exactly 
how  many  days,  old.  But  her  slight  figure,  as  well  as  grand- 
mother Brae's  notions,  was  against  her,  and  "  child "  she 
was  cdnsidered  by  the  whole  neighborhood. 

The  teacher  was  to  spend  two  or  three  days  with  his  friend, 
Mr.  Markham,  before  he  commenced  his  school.  The  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival  in  town,  as  Nell  and  1  sat  talking  it  over, 
and  considering  what  could  be  done  in  her  behalf,  we  were 
almost  beside  ourselves  with  delight,  to  hear  the  old  lady 
say,  as  she  passed  the  corner  where  we  sat : 

"  Well,  well,  child,  I  '11  see  about  it.  You  need  n't  feel  so 
poorly ;  may-be  you  '11  go,  after  all.  There  is  time  enough 
to  think  about  it  between  this  and  Thursday  night." 

We  viewed  the  matter  as  settled,  for  Mrs.  Brae's  "  I  '11  see 
about  it"  was  always  equivalent  to  a  positive  assent.  Of 
this  we  felt  so  sure,  that,  during  recess  at  school  that  day, 
we  talked  only  of  the  dresses  we  should  wear  to  the  singing- 
school,  and  on  our  way  home  made  the  important  decision  that 
our  hoods  should  be  lined  and  trimmed  with  crimson  instead 
of  pink.  Therefore,  I  was  somewhat  surprised,  that  evening, 
to  see  Nell  come  panting  in,  and  fling  herself  into  a  chair  witk 
a  look  of  comical  distress. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Nell?"  asked  my  mother  and  I  to 
gether. 

"  They  will  not  let  me  go !  " 


THE   OLD  MAPLE.  329 

"Go  where?"  inquired  my  mother,  who  did  not  under* 
stand. 

"To  the  singing-school,"  she  replied,  endeavoring  to  hide 
her  tears. 

"  Won't  let  you  go,  Nell !  "  I  cried.  "  Why,  your  grand- 
mother as  good  as  promised  you  migkt  go  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  Mrs.  Crane  came  over  to-night,  and  made  such 
a  fuss  about  her  '  Bubby,'  and  such  dreadful  complaints 
against  me,  that  grandpa  is  really  vexed,  and  grandma  says 
I  shall  stay  at  home  till  I  can  behave  myself  and  keep  out 
of  mischief." 

"  What  has  that  great  booby,  bubby  Crane,  to  do  with 
your  going  to  singing-school  ?  Did  n't  you  help  him  put  on 
his  mittens  ?  Did  you  let  him  fall  down  ?  " 

"  Worse,  though  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  him.  You  know 
Aunt  Mary  gdire  me  a  box  of  rhubarb  for  grandmother. 
Bubby  Crane  thought  it  was  ground  cinnamon,  and  teased 
me  all  the  way  home  to  let  him  taste  it.  Well,  he  called  me 
stingy,  and  made  such  a  fuss  that  I  opened  the  box  and  let 
him  taste.  I  didn't  think  he  would  be  so  greedy,  but  he 
lapped  up  a  great  mouthful  of  it,"  she  continued,  with  an 
expression  of  merriment  dimpling  round  her  mouth,  "  and  I 
guess  he  swallowed  a  good  dose.  It  half  strangled  him,  and 
I  could  not  help  laughing  to  see  him  spit.  He  ran  screaming 
home,  and  immediately  his  mother  came  over  with  a  furious 
complaint  against  me." 

We  all  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Crane's  baby,  a  great 
boy,  ten  years  old,  with  his  mouth  full  of  rhubarb 

"  What  is  to  be  done  now,  Nell  ?  "  I  asked. 

"0,1  don't  know !  Go  homo  with  me,  Fanny ;  perhaps 
you  can  persuade  her." 

We  were  soon  seated,  with  our  knitting,  by  the  side  of 

Mrs.  Brae.     Nothing  was  said  of  Nelly's  misdemeanor.     The 

old  lady  was  gradually  led  to  talk  of  the  days  of  her  youth, 

and  she  soon  became  eloquent  in  maintaining  that  people 

28* 


830          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASTL. 

now-a-days  are  not  half  as  healthy,  wise,  or  good  as  they 
were  when  she  was  young.  She  sang  us  old  tunes,  which 
I  praised.  She  made  us  sing  with  her,  and  qualified  her 
praise  of  our  singing,  by  saying  we  should  "  do  well  enough 
if  we  did  n't  open  our  mouths  so  wide  and  sing  so  loud." 
We  were  all  quavering  away  on  "  Majesty  "  when  Mr.  Brae 
entered,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Markham,  and  a  stranger,  who 
was  introduced  to  us  as  our  teacher,  Mr.  Wilson. 

"  I  wished  Mr.  Wilson  to  become  acquainted  with  some  of 
the  families  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  believe  I  have 
brought  him  to  the  right  place  now,  Mrs.  Brae,"  said  the 
minister.  "  You  are  all  singers,  and  my  young  friends  here 
will  attend  the  singing-school,  of  course." 

"  Fanny  is  going,  I  believe,"  began  the  old  lady.  "  I  did 
think  of  sending  Nelly,  but  she  is  so  wild  and  mischievous 
that  she  will  only  trouble  the  gentleman.  Besides,  there  is 
no  one  to  go  with  her  ;  John  is  such  a  crazy  head  he  wouldn't 
come  home  with  her  half  the  time." 

"  0,  you  must  let  Nelly  go  !     She  has  a  beautiful  voice." 

"  Why,  yes,  she  can  sing  a  little,"  said  the  old  man,  look- 
ing at  her  proudly  and  fondly.  "Come  here,  Nelly,  and 
sing  one  of  the  old  songs  you  sung  to  me  last  night." 

Nell  rose,  and  stood  timidly  by  her  grandfather. 

"  Which  shall  I  sing  ?  "  she  asked,  without  venturing  to 
look  up. 

"  Either,  child ;  they  were  all  good,  for  they  were  home 
songs." 

She  began  the  old,  ever  beautiful,  "  Afton  Water,"  and 
sang  it  through  in  clear,  unfaltering  tones.  Her  voice  was 
untrained,  but  full  of  deep,  rich  melody.  Wilson  listened 
with  evident  surprise  and  delight.  He  turned  to  the  old  man, 
and  said : 

"  You  will  not  refuse  to  let  her  become  my  pupil,  Mr. 
Brae !  Such  a  voice  as  that  should  be  cultivated  by  all 
means." 


THE  OLD  MAPLE.  331 

•  The  old  man  was  pleased ;  Nell  looked  wistfully  in  his 
face,  and  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  They  are  all  on  your  side, 
child.  If  there  was  only  some  one  to  go  with  you,  I  wouldn't 
Bay  a  word." 

"  Dick  and  I  will  come  round  this  way,  every  night,"  I 
exclaimed,  eagerly. 

"Ay,  that  would  do,  Fanny,  if  there  were  to  be  no 
snow." 

"  If  that  is  your  only  objection,  Mr.  Brae,"  said  Wilson, 
"  it  can  be  removed,  if  you  will  trust  your  grand-daughter  to 
my  care.  I  shall  board  with  your  neighbor,  Mr.  Morris,  and, 
if  you  do  not  object,  shall  be  happy  to  call  for  her." 

The  old  people  hesitated,  and  talked  of  the  trouble.  Mr. 
Wilson  insisted  that  he  could  not  do  without  Nelly's  voice ; 
Mr.  Markham  seconded  his  proposal,  and  it  was  finally  agreed 
that  Nelly  should  attend  the  school  under  Mr.  Wilson's  es- 
cort. 

This  arrangement  pleased  all  but  herself.  "  I  wonder  how 
you  could  tell  him  I  shall  go  !  "  she  said,  as  the  door  closed 
on  the  visitors. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  to  go,  child." 

"  So  I  do  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  go  with  him.  He  is  so  min- 
ister-like, that  I  shall  not  dare  to  breathe  on  the  way.  I 
wish  Mr.  Markham  had  not  brought  him  here." 

"  Fie !  child,  fie  !  "  said  the  grandmother.  "  Mr.  Wilson's 
offer  to  take  care  of  you  was  very  kind,  and  I  'm  glad  if  you 
are  afraid  of  him." 

"  I  can  run  away  from  him,  you  know,"  said  Nell,  laugh- 
ing. 

She  did  not  run  away  from  him,  though.  After  a  week  or 
two,  she  not  only  breathed  with  her  accustomed  ease,  but 
laughed  as  merrily  as  ever.  True  she  was  not  always  with 
him,  for  she  was  frequently  kiting  off,  as  Mrs.  Brae  expressed 
it,  in  pursuit  of  some  wayward  fancy ;  now  for  a  slide  on 
some  tempting  piece  of  ice ;  now  to  draw  her  fingers  across 


332         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

a  row  of  icicles  that  hung  from  the  topmost  rail  of  the  fence, 
when  she  would  hush  us  all  to  listen  to  their  music,  as  they 
splintered  in  the  still  moonbeams.  v  . 

Harry  Wilson  was  an  indulgent  guardian,  and  she  soon 
found  that  the  grave  expression  of  his  eyes  could  change  to 
one  of  mirth,  and  that  his  somewhat  haughty  mouth  could 
relax  into  a  smile  as  sweet  and  merry  as  her  own.  He  soon 
became  a  great  favorite  with  old  and  young,  and  his  school 
succeeded  admirably. 

We  met  in  the  White  School  House.  As  Mr.  Wilson 
was  usually  one  of  the  last  to  leave,  Nell,  at  his  request, 
waited  until  he  was  ready  to  attend  her.  This  soon  drew 
the  attention  and  excited  the  pleasantry  of  the  older  girls ; 
but  when  Mrs.  Morris,  an  empty-headed,  gossiping  busy- 
body, assured  them  that  Mrs.  Brae  as  good  as  asked  him 
to  wait  on  Nell,  and  that  she  knew  that  he  wished  the  little 
plague  a  thousand  miles  off,  their  smiles  became  contempt- 
uous titters. 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  they  grew  surprised,  and  even  indig- 
nant, to  see  that,  instead  of  making  an  effort  to  shake  off  the 
"  little  plague,"  Mr.  Wilson  not  only  stopped  an  hour  or  so 
after  singing-school,  but  passed  most  of  his  leisure  evenings 
at  Mr.  Brae's. 

"  What  could  he  find  there  to  interest  him  ?  " 

Had  they  asked  him  instead  of  Mrs.  Morris,  he  might  have 
answered,  "  A  home  !  " 

Somehow  he  loved  to  be  at  Mr.  Brae's ;  somehow  he  loved 
to  sit  by  Nell,  and  hear  her  voice  mingle  with  his  in  a  favor- 
ite melody ;  somehow  her  wild  JEolian  tones  gave  his  heart  & 
fuller,  brighter  sense  of  existence.  He  taught  her  music  be- 
cause he  delighted  to  do  so,  and  he  did  not  ask  himself  why 
he  taught  her  to  drop  "  Mr.  Wilson  "  and  call  him  Harry. 

He  might  have  said,  also,  that  most  other  people,  where 
he  called,  showed  an  over-anxiety  to  impress  him  with  the 
notion  that  they  knew  something  of  gentility  and  fashion ; 


THE   OLD   MAPLE.  333 

while  many  were  so  distressingly  formal  and  ceremonious  in 
their  manner  toward  him,  that  he  did  not  care  to  call  a 
second  time. 

Mrs.  Morris,  true  to  her  first  statement,  insisted  that 
"  Grandmother  Brae  "  was  constantly  scheming  to  secure  to 
Nell  a  double  share  of  instruction  in  music  ;  and,  in  the  plen- 
itude of  her  benevolence,  she  determined  to  assist  him  out  of 
"  the  scrape." 

"  It  was  a  shame  and  disgrace,"  she  said,  "  that  he  must 
not  only  have  that  child  tagging  after  him  to  singing-school, 
but  must  also  go  there  every  other  evening  to  give  her  music 
lessons." 

The  evening  after  she  came  to  this  determination,  it  hap- 
pened that  Mr.  Wilson  sat  down  at  home  to  copy  some  music 
for  Nell.  Mrs.  Morris  sat  near  him,  rocking  to  and  fro,  and 
watching  for  an  opportunity  to  begin  her  good  work.  At 
length,  as  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  opened  his  portfolio  for 
another  sheet  of  paper,  she  began  : 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  at  home  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Wil- 
son. I  had  some  calls,  or  perhaps  they  were  intended  for  you ; 
one  can't  always  tell,  you  know." 

"  Indeed  ! "  he  replied,  taking  his  pen  again  and  proceeding 
with  his  copy. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  as  if  determined  not  to  be  foiled, 
"  Maria  Bennet  and  Sarah  Slocum  have  been  here  half  the 
afternoon.  I  inquired  about  your  school ;  but  their  heads  were 
so  full  of  the  party  John  Brae  is  going  to  give  at  his  sugar- 
works,  that  they  could  think  of  nothing  else.  You  have  heard 
all  about  the  party,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,"  he  replied,  bringing  down  his  pen  with 
a  heavy  staccato  on  the  last  notes  of  the  third  bar. 

"  Thoughtless  things  !  it  made  me  sad  to  see  them,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  but  girls  are  girls,  though  they  don't  behave  now 
as  they  did  in  my  day.  There  is  Mary  Grant,  and  Fanny 
Alden,  and  my  old  neighbor  Brae's  girl ;  they  are  nothing  but 


334         LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

children,  and,  la  me !  look  at  them !  They  are  as  pert  and  as 
forward  as  if  they  were  twenty  years  old.  I  dare  say  you 
have  noticed  them.  I  like  to  see  children  know  their  places, 
don't  you,  Mr.  Wilson  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  young  man,  mechanically,  without 
pausing  from  his  work. 

"  Ah,  I  knew  you  would  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Wilson  !  I 
hate  pertness  and  forwardness  above  all  things ;  but  you  can't 
expect  much  from  a  child  whose  grand-parents  are  constantly 
pushing  her  forward,  and  fastening  her  to  other  people,  whether 
they  want  her  or  not.  There  are  not  many  who  would  beat 
it  as  you  do." 

Here  Mrs.  Morris  was  .obliged  to  pause,  for  Mr.  Wilson, 
who  had  not  attended  to  a  word  of  her  harangue,  caught  up 
his  flute,  and,  after  playing  the  music  once  or  twice,  took  his 
hat  and  left  the  room. 

"  Well,  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  he  has  gone  right  over 
there  again  !  I  meant  to  have  had  a  little  more  talk  with 
him,  but  I  have  found  out  that  it  is  just  as  I  supposed.  I  '11 
set  matters  to  rights  to-morrow ;  I  '11  go  over  there  and  tell 
Nelly  just  what  he  thinks  of  her.  It  will  be  no  more  than 
friendly,  for  she  has  no  mother,  and  grandmother  Brae  is  get- 
ting old  and  foolish." 

Mrs.  Morris  did  not  forget  her  resolution.  -She  went  over 
next  day,  immediately  after  school,  and  found  Nelly  alone. 
After  some  inquiries  about  the  family,  the  lady's  voice  sud- 
denly changed  from  its  usual  loud,  shrill  key,  to  the  piteous, 
disagreeable  whine  commonly  adopted  by  women  of  her  stamp 
on  like  occasions.  Then  she  went  on  to  relate  her  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  Wilson,  making,  from  the  outset,  only  the 
slight  mistake  of  imputing  to  him  the  language  she  had  used 
herself. 

At  first  Nell  opened  her  clear,  brown  eyes,  as  if  she  did 
not  understand.  But  as  Mrs.  Morris  went  on  to  say  he 
called  her  pert  and  forward,  and  laughed  at  her  grand- 


THE  OLD   MAPLE.  335 

parents,  a  thousand  gleaming  rajs  seemed  to  converge  and 
centre  in  the  pupils  of  the  girl's  eyes,  and  her  sudden  excla- 
mation, "  I  don't  believe  it ! "  fairly  startled  that  amiable 
lady. 

"  I  suppose  not,  my  dear ;  people  are  not  apt  to  believe 
unpleasant  things,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  heard  him  say  it,  else  I 
should  hardly  believe  it  myself.  But  you  need  n't  take  it  on 
my  word.  The  young  folks  have  been  talking  it  over  this 
month  past ;  if  you  don't  believe  me,  ask  them." 

On  my  way  to  singing-school  that  night  I  called  on  Nell. 
Instead  of  answering  my  merry  greetings,  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  would  tell  the  occasion  of 
her  grief.  « 

"  I  do  not  believe  it ! "  I  said,  as  she  closed  her  some- 
what disconnected  account  of  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris. "  I  have  heard  something  of  this  before,  but  I  do  not 
believe  Mr.  Wilson  ever  said  or  thought  such  things.  I  '11 
ask  him." 

••  Xot  for  the  world,  Fanny  !  — not  for  the  world  !  Mrs. 
Moms  says  she  heard  him  say  it,  last  night,  and  it  must  be 
so.  You  know  he  never  would  have  thought  of  calling  for 
me,  if  grandpa  and  grandma  had  not  spoken  just  as  they  did 
about  my  going  to  singing-school.  But  to  have  him  make  fun 
of  me,  and  say  I  kept  putting  myself  in  his  way,  it  is  too 
bad  ! "  and  her  tears  fell  fast. 

I  thought  iWas  too  bad,  but  felt  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take. She  refused  to  attend  the  singing-school  again,  until  I 
said  such  a  course  would  occasion  more  talk,  and  told  her 
that  Dick  and  I  would  come  for  her  very  early,  and  that 
when  there  was  much  snow  she  could  spend  the  night  with 
me.  She  consented  to  this  arrangement,  but  refused  to  go 
that  night. 

Harry  Wilson  called  at  the  usual  hour.  When  Xell  heard 
his  steps  on  the  threshold,  she  caught  up  a  deep  hood,  and 


336          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

drawing  it  over  her  face,  bent  over  a  porringer  of  gruel  that 
stood  on  the  hearth,  and  began  to  stir  it. 

"  I  have  brought  the  music  I  promised  you,  Nelly,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.  "  We  shall  not  have  time  to  practise  it  till  after 
school,  for  it  is  almost  half  past  six  now.  Come,  get  your 
bonnet  and  cloak." 

Nell  murmured  something  about  her  grandmother's  illness, 
and  staying  at  home. 

"  Why,  child,  you  need  not  stay  at  home  on  that  account," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  I  shall  not  go,  grandpa ;  I  shall  be  wanted 
here,"  she  said,  with  a  firmer  tone. 

"  Well,  I  will^sall  as  I  return,  and  we  will  try  the  music. 

To-morrow  Mr.  Markham  and  I  start  for  H .  We  shall 

be  absent  two  or  three  days,  and  you  must  have  the  air  per- 
fect when  I  return.  But  pray  don't  stir  the  bottom  of  that 
dish  out  while  I  am  gone,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  laughing,  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

Long  before  he  returned,  Nell  went  to  her  chamber.  She 
was  grieved,  wounded,  bewildered.  She  could  not  under- 
stand such  baseness,  and  she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow 
that  night  with  feelings  to  which  she  had  hitherto  been  a 
stranger. 

Harry  Wilson  and  Mr.  Markham  returned  late  on  Saturday 
night.  The  next  evening,  on  his  way  to  singing-school,  he 
called,  as  usual,  for  Nelly.  But  she  and  I  were  already  at 
the  school-house.  He  was  disappointed  and  disturbed.  Some- 
how his  short  absence  had  made  him  feel,  more  deeply  than 
ever,  that  to  see  and  speak  with  Nelly  was  necessary  to  his 
happiness.  And  he  would  see  her,  he  thought,  as  he  returned. 
But  no ;  Nelly  had  obtained  permission  to  spend  the  night 
with  me,  and  before  most  of  our  companions  had  arranged 
their  hoods  and  cloaks  we  were  half  way  home. 

That  night  Mr.  Wilson  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  the 
endless  gossip  of  Mrs.  Morris.  He  was  angry  with  himself, 


HIE    OLD    MAPLE.  337 

with  Nell,  and  not  particularly  pleased  with  the  world  in 
general. 

"  She  is  too  flighty,  too  thoughtless,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I  have  seen  too  much  of  the  world  for  such  childishness  to 
trouble  me."  His  knowledge  of  the  world  had  been  such  as 
to  make  him  morbidly  sensitive  in  all  that  related  to  the  affec- 
tions. Many  a  fair  face  had  caught  his  fancy ;  but  it  was 
really  true  that  none  had  touched  his  heart  like  little  Nelly 
Brae's.  He  now  began  to  see  that  he  unconsciously  treasured 
up  every  graceful  movement  and  winning  smile,  and  made  them 
the  food  of  hia  dreams.  He  was  startled  at  the  strength  and 
depth  of  his  feelings.  What  did  Nelly  mean  ?  Why  did  she 
avoid  him  ?  What  did  he  mean  himself? 


CHAPTER   if i. 

" 0  !  rook,  upon  thy  towery  top 

All  throats  that  gargle  sweet ! 
All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm  dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

"  The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

Th^t  under  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot 
High  up  in  silver  spikes  !  " 

It  was  early  in  the  sugar  season,  and  John  Brae  had  given 
out  invitations  for  a  party  at  his  shanty,  on  the  first  pleasant 
evening  of  the  full  moon.  This  happened  the  next  evening. 
Nelly  and  I  spent  the  afternoon  at  the  "  sap-works,"  assisting 
John  in  his  arrangements.  His  shanty  was  a  building  some 
fifteen  feet  square,  rudely  constructed  of  posts  and  rough 
boards.  John  had  devised  an  addition,  of  which  the  two  old 
maples  in  front  were  to  be  the  corner  posts.  Branches  of 
cedar  and  hemlock  served  for  clapboards  and  thatch.  Wo 
wreathed  the  bare  walls  of  the  main  building  with  evergreen  ; 
29 


338       ,    LEAVES  FKOM  THE  THEE  IQDRASTL. 

and  the  great  half-hogshead  tub  in  the  corner,  covered  over 
with  clean,  white  boards,  served  for  a  side-table,  on  which  we 
placed  sundry  dishes  of  butternuts,  walnuts  and  apples.  A 
large  covered-basket  stood  in  the  centre,  containing  bread, 
butter,  salt,  and  several  dozens  of  fresh  eggs,  which  usually 
formed  the  chief  article  of  refreshment  on  such  occasions. 
The  last  seat  was  arranged,  the  rude  floors  nicely  swept, 
and,  having  nothing  more  to  do,  we  paused  to  survey  our 
work. 

"  It  is  really  a  very  pretty  place,"  said  I. 

"  Pretty  enough,"  Nell  replied,  sadly.     ^ 

"  Pretty  enough  !  "  I  exclaimed,  rather  vexed  at  her  scant 
praise.  "  It  is  beautiful !  If  it  could  be  well  lighted,  it 
would  look  about  as  well  as  the  church  on  Christmas  eve." 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  John,  coming  up.  "  Can't  you  contrive 
to  have  it  well  lighted  up,  girls  ?  " 

"  We  have  candles  enough,  but  we  have  only  eight  sticks, 
for  grandmother  will  not  let  us  have  her  plated  ones." 

"  Wait  a  bit,  girls.  I  '11  fix  it,"  he  said,  opening  a  box 
that  served  as  a  kind  of  tool-chest ;  and  presently,  by  means 
of  augers  and  pine  blocks,  he  provided  a  great  supply  of 
candlesticks. 

Our  arrangements  all  finished,  we  went  home  to  get  tea,  and 
dress  for  the  evening.  Nell  would  gladly  have  remained  at 
home,  but  she  knew  that  her  absence  would  excite  surprise  and 
conjecture.  Besides,  she  had  been  the  chief  influence  in  per- 
suading John  to  give  the  party. 

When  we  reached  our  woodland  bower,  the  beams  of  the 
rising  moon  were  around  the  leafy  door-way,  struggling  to 
steal  in  and  sleep  on  the  floor,  as  longingly  as  if  it  had  been 
of  Parian  marble  ;  and  a  few  stars  looked  down  through  the 
openings  in  the  hemlock  thatch,  like  guardian  spirits.  Our 
candlesticks  did  well,  and  the  effect  of  the  light  was  fine, 
though  here  and  there  a  bunch  of  hemlock  leaves  crisped  and 
crackled  as  they  cime  in  contact  with  the  blazing  wicks.  The 


THE   OLD   MAPLK.  339 

night  was  beautiful.  The  atmosphere  was  so  clear  and  elas- 
tic, that  we  could  hear  the  voices  and  footsteps  of  our  guests 
coining  across  the  fields  long  before  they  reached  the  shanty. 

Ah !  those  were  happy  hours ;  as  happy  as  youth,  health 
and  unworn  hearts  could  make  them.  I  will  not  pretend  to 
say  how  many  games  of  forfeit  were  played  ;  nor  how  many 
of  the  forfeits  were  kisses ;  nor  how  often  the  long,  spiral 
apple-peelings,  when  dropped  over  the  right  shoulder,  formed 
the  very  letters  which,  by  all  the  laws  of  magic,  they  were 
bound  to  form  ;  nor  with  what  a  half-pleased,  half-coquettish 
air  the  maidens  held  forth  their  palms  full  of  apple-seeds, 
while  Johi$  Fred,  or  Sam,  or  whoever  had  "  named  the 
;fpples,"  counted  them  over  and  over,  to  see  if  they  would 
spell  the  given  name ;  nor  how,  if  he  succeeded,  they  were 
thrown  into  his  bosom  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  and,  "  I  won- 
der how  any  one  can  be  so  ridiculous  !  " 

Apples !  O,  blessed  be  apples  !  they  have  been  famed  in 
philosophy  and  song ;  but  neither  the  golden  ones  of  Idalian 
Aphrodite,  nor  the  famous  one  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  ever  pos- 
sessed such  delightful  magic  as  the  Rhode  Island  greenings 
that  made  part  of  our  entertainment  that  evening  at  John 
Brae's  sap-house. 

The  whole  arcana  of  magic  lay  hid  in  their  seeds,  if  one 
only  possessed  the  skill  to  interpret  them,  and  Nelly  was 
deeply  versed  in  all  such  lore.  At  our  gatherings  she  was 
the  acknowledged  sibyl.  But  she  was  too  busy  now  arrang- 
ing the  table,  and  discussing  with  John  and  a  merry-pated  old 
bachelor  the  precise  number  of  minutes  necessary  to  boil  an 
egg,  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  calls  for  her. 

At  length  Mary  Grant-came  into  the  back  room,  and,  twin- 
ing her  arm  around  Nell's  waist,  attempted  to  draw  her  into 
the  "  green  room,"  as  we  styled  the  new  apartment. 

"  No,  excuse,  Nelly,"  she  cried ;  "  we  are  determined  to 
have  our  fortunes  told.  You  are  the  only  witch  present,  and 
you  must  come." 


340          LEA ViS  FROM  THE  TREE  IGDRASYL. 

"  Nonsense,  Mary  !     I  can't  go  ;  I  am  busy." 

"  You  had  better  come,  Nelly,"  she  said,  significantly ; 
then,  lowering  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  she  added,  "  some  of 
them  say  you  would  not  be  so  sober  and  old-womanish  if  some- 
body they  could  name  were  here." 

Nell  colored  deeply,  and,  yielding  to  Mary's  movement, 
passed  into  the  green-room.  Here  she  became  the  centre  of 
the  company,  and,  Mary  having  stealthily  put  a  wreath  of 
holly-leaves  around  her  head,  she  sat  with  comic  gravity 
uttering  predictions  that  were  received  with  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter, when  suddenly  the  rude  door  opened,  and  Harry  Wilson 
entered.  He  was  received  with  a  loud  welcome^  and  imme- 
diately drawn  into  the  circle. 

Until  within  a  few  days  Nell  had  poured  forth  her  thoughts 
and  feelings  with  the  unconstrained  freedom  of  a  bird.  But 
she  was  now  learning  to  act  the  woman,  with  the  owlish  world 
for  a  tutor,  and  of  course  her  first  lesson  was  concealment. 
She  pressed  down  her  rising  heart,  and,  taking  advantage  of 
her  assumed  character,  she  bowed  gravely  to  Mr.  Wilson  and 
went  on  with  her  predictions.  Presently  she  arose,  and, 
placing  the  wreath  on  Mary's  head,  said,  "  There,  good  folk, 
I  can  stay  no  longer;  I  must  away." 

"  No,  no !  you  have  not  told  Mr.  Wilson's  fortune  yet. 
You  cannot  go  yet !  "  cried  three  or  four,  pressing  round  to 
prevent  her  escape. 

"  Indeed,  I  must  go ;  there,  John  is  calling  me  now ;  do 
let  me  go  !  "  she  exclaimed  hastily,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  her 
-voice. 

Mr.  Wilson  himself  made  way  for  her  to  pass,  saying,  as  he 
did  so,  "  No,  no,  good  friends.  It  is  unwise  to  attempt  to 
compel  fate.  I  fear  my  fortune  would  be  a  dark  one  if  told 
by  an  unwilling  sibyl." 

A  merrier  set  than  was  gathered  round  our  table  that  night 
could  not  be  found  in  old  Connecticut.  Mr.  Wilson,  as  our 
most  distinguished  guest,  was  seated  by  Nell  at  the  head  of 


THfi   OLD   MAPLE.  341 

the  table.  But  no  words  passed  between  them,  save  such  as 
were  absolutely  necessary.  We  kept  primitive  hours,  and  at 
ten  o'clock  there  was  a  general  call  for  hoods  and  cloaks. 
Amid  the  confusion,  and  "  more  last  words,"  Mr.  Wilson  ap- 
proached Nell,  who  stood  by  the  table  searching  a  great 
basket  as  if  she  expected  to  find  happiness  at  the  bottom,  and 
proposed  to  escort  her  home.  He  did  not  catch  her  reply,  for 
at  that  moment  half  a  dozen  gathered  round  him  to  inquire 
about  the  approaching  concert.  When  he  turned  to  offer  his' 
arm  she  was  gone.  » 

He  mingled  with  the  group  around  the  door,  but  she  was 
not  there.  Vexed  and  wounded  by  her  strange  conduct,  he 
took  the*  more  frequented  path  home,  but  he  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  before  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  form  moving 
rapidly  along  the  path  that  led  round  by  the  old  maple.  He 
paused  and  hesitated.  He  knew  she  could  not  cross  the 
stream  on  the  stepping-stones,  for  he  had  tried  it  that  even- 
ing. The  late  rains  had  made  the  crossing  so  difficult  that  he 
had  been  obliged  to  turn  back  and  take  the  other  path. 

The  next  moment  he  was  following  her  with  rapid  steps. 
Before  he  reached  the  crossing-place,  he  left  the  path  and 
sprang  across  the  stream,  some  rods  higher  up.  In  her  haste 
she  had  proceeded  about  one  third  of  the  way  across,  before 
she  saw  that  the  stones  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  were 
completely  out  of  sight.  She  stood  hesitating,  when  he  sud- 
denly appeared,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  across 
without  speaking.  She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  astonish- 
ment, but,  as  he  turned  to  leave  her,  she  burst  into  tears.  He 
paused,  and,  turning  back,  asked  eagerly  : 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Nelly?  " 

She  could  not  reply,  for  tears.  He  stood  a  moment  irres- 
olute", and  then  led  her  on  to  the  old  maple. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  means  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

She  made  an  effort  to  stifle  her  sobs,  and,  looking  up  through 
her  tears,  said,  "  I  suppose  it  was  not  quite  proper  for  me  to 
29* 


342  LEAVES    tKOM    THE    TREE    IQDRASYL. 

bay  what  grandfather  did.  Bat  he  did  not  mean  anything  im- 
proper. I  was  foolish  to  go, —  but  I  did  not  think  you  could 
be  so  unkind,  so  cruel,  Harry." 

" But  what  have  I  done,  Nell?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  did  not  mean  it  just  as  Mrs.  Morris  makes 
it  seem ;  but  to  think  you  could  talk  so  of  me ! "  and  she 
sobbed  again  more  deeply  than  before. 

"Hush,  hush,  Nelly!  Do  explain  yourself;  what  have  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Morris  ?  " 

By  degrees  he  drew  from  her  an  account  of  her  interview 
with  Mrs.  Morris.  We  need  not  say  how  eagerly  and  indig- 
nantly he  exculpated  himself;  nor  what  earnest  and  beautiful 
words  he  whispered,  as  he  drew  her  closer  and  closer  to  his 
bosom.  Memory,  or  the  prophetic  yearnings  of  your  own 
heart,  will  tell  you  what  they  were.  I  will  only  say  that  the 
lazy  sap  in  the  old  tree  took  a  livelier  motion ;  and  ever 
afterwards  troops  of  sweet  flowers,  such  as  the  anemone  and 
meek-eyed  arbutus,  came  yearly  to  dwell  at  its  foot,  and  bless 
it  with  their  fragrant  beauty. 

#  #  •  #  *  =* 

"  And  is  that  all,  Fanny  ?  "  asks  E ,  with  a  look  of 

disappointment  not  very  flattering  to  my  story-telling  talent. 

"  Ay,  that  is  all,  and  enough  too.  Did  I  not  tell  you  the 
story  was  like  the  old  maple  ?  " 

"  But,  Fanny,  it  is  no  story  at  all.  You  have  not  said  a 
word  about  the  wedding :  we  do  not  even  know  they  were 
married." 

"  0,  if  you  wish  to  hear  about  a  wedding,  take  up  the 
newspaper  yonder.  There  is  an  account  of  the  Empress 
Eugenie's.  These  romances  in  white  satin  are  wearisomely 
alike.  But  I  will  add,  that  some  four  years  ago  I  visited 
Nell  at  her  pleasant  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Quinebaug.  I 
found  them  both  unchanged  in  heart;  but  she  had  really 
grown  beautiful.  Her  face  had  gained  in  tone  and  expres- 
sion ;  her  eyes  beamed  with  light  that  seemed  to  flow  from  a 


THE  OLD  MAPLE.  343 

heart  brimming  with  untold  happiness,  and  her  voice  was,  aa 
ever,  '  the  sweetest  midst  the  cadences  of  girls.' 

"  We  sat  in  the  parlor,  calling  up  old  times.  As  I  looked 
from  the  open  window,  I  saw  that  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
piazza  was  wreathed  with  ivy,  and  near  by,  under  the  shade 
of  a  rose-bush,  grew  a  large  bunch  of  sage. 

"  '  So  you  really  planted  them,  Nelly  !  — the  sage  and  ivy 
I  mean,'  I  said,  pointing  toward  them. 

"  '  To  be  sure  she  did,'  replied  Harry,  laughing;  '  and  they 
thrive  well.  Come  and  see  the  fruit,  Fanny.' 

"  He  drew  us  both  into  the  next  room,  and,  putting  aside  a 
muslin  curtain,  pointed  to  a  beautiful  babe  that  lay  asleep  in 
its  cradle. 

"  The  young  mother  stooped  to  kiss  it,  and  as  she  raised  her 
head  their  eyes  met.  Ah  !  that  glance,  so  full  of  unspeakable 
happiness  !  I  involuntarily  repeated  those  words  of  the  dis- 
ciple of  wisdom :  «  A  babe  in  the  house  is.  a  well-spring  of 
happiness,  a  messenger  of  peace  and  love,  a  link  between 
angels  and  men.'  " 


XII. 
LILIAN    LOVIS. 


"  SIXTY-ONE  —  two  —  three.  It  must  be  old  Aunt  Saun- 
ders,"  I  observed,  as  the  tolling  of  the  old  church  bell  fell 
upon  my  ear.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  listened  to  its 
mournful  tones  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  if  not  pleasure.  Not 
that  I  have  so  far  outgrown  humanity  as  to  be  able  to  look 
Death  in  the  face  without  fear,  —  for  I  have  still  a  childish 
dread  of  shadmos, — but  I  knew  that  a  lamp,  whose  flame 
had  been  long  dimmed  by  the  unwholesome  vapors  of  earth, 
had  been  relit  in  heaven  —  that  a  harp,  whose  chords  had 
been  too  tensely  drawn  while  here  to  give  forth  sweet  music, 
had  again  caught  up  the  hymn  of  life  in  that  blessed  land 

where  all  beautiful  things 

• 

"  Keep  ths  high  promise  of  their  earlier  day." 

I  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  in  a  few  moments  stood  in  the 
chamber  of  death.  I  have  ever  had  a  proclivity  to  antiqua- 
rianism,  reader ;  .but  my  researches  have  been  rather  in  the 
soul-world  than  in  the  world  of  old  ruins  or  Koman  antiqui 
ties.  I  love  to  take  some  old,  care-worn,  world-worn  face, 
and  recast  it  in  the  mould  of  youth  —  to  strip  from  it,  one 
by  one,  those  mummy-like  envelopes  which  time,  education 
and  custom  have  wrapped  around  it,  until,  Galatea-like,  it 
stands  before  me,  glowing  with  youth,  hope  and  beauty.  But 
Aunt  Saunders'  face  (she  was  the  "  village  aunt,"  reader) ; 
had  ever  been  to  me  most  tantalizing.  Occasionally  I  fancied 
that  I  could  detect  a  gleam  of  light  in  her  sunken  eyes,  that 
betokened  something  like  human  interest ;  but,  like  a  spot 


LILIAX    LOVI3.  845 

of  untarnished  gilding  on  some  old,  illuminated  manusciipt,  it 
only  served  to  show  more  plainly  the  dilapidated  condition 
of  the  rest.  t 

How  could  I  dream  that  she  had  ever  been  young  and  fair? 
that  those  faded,  sunken  eyes  had  ever  flashed  back  the  sun- 
light, or  mirrored  in  their  depths  an  image  of  love  and  hope  ? 
that  those  shrivelled  lids  had  ever  drooped,  in  very  bashful- 
ness,  beneath  the  gaze  of  loving  eyes  which  were  earnestly 
striving  to  read  that  tale  which  no  man  reads  unmoved  ?  By 
what  magic  could  I  smooth  out  the  unnumbered  wrinkles  that 
circled  round  her  mouth,  and  make  it  once  mofe  the  gate  of 
love  and  mirth,  of  song  and  ringing  laughter  ? 

Death  revealed  to  me  far  more  than  life.  He  did  not  enter 
that  solitary  chamber  alone.  The  angel  of  mercy  had  stood 
by  the  pillow  of  the  dying  one,  and  retouched  those  faded 
lineaments  with  something  like  the  freshness  of  early  life. 

Then  I  learned  (and  could  well  credit  the  tale)  how,  in 
early  girlhood,  she  had  been,  for  three  blessed  years,  the 
cherished  flower  of  young  Henry  Gresham's  heart — his  Lily, 
as  he  fondly  called  her,  filling  his  pathway  with  fragrance 
and  beauty.  Those  sunken  eyes  had  returned  light  for  light, 
those  shrivelled  lips,  love  for  love,  and  the  young  man  forgot 
his  proud  mother  and  worldly-wise  father,  while  he  sat  by  her 
side  and  received  both  at  her  hands.  Lilian  Lovis  had 
nothing  to  recommend  her  to  the  wealthy  Greshams  but  her 
sweet  face  and  guileless  heart.  These  were  priceless  in  the 
eyes  of  young  Harry;  but,  unfortunately,  the  old  people 
thought  differently.  They  saw  no  beauty  save  through  the 
yellow  atmosphere  of  gold,  no  worth  save  such  as  could  be 
found  between  the  leaves  of  mouldy  family  records.  Their 
children  had  been  trained  to  implicit  obedience,  and  they  did 
not  fail  to  represent  to  Harry  their  disapproval  of  his  taste 
in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  him  no  choice  between  love  and 
what  they  called  —  and,  alas !  he  thought  —  duty. 

They  succeeded  in  convincing  his  intellect,  but  not  hia 


346          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREE  IQDRASYL. 

heart,  for  there  the  fragrance  of  his  Lily  lingered  long  after 
the  daughter  of  rich  Jacob  Greene  called  him  husband.  And 
once  or  twice,  during  the  first  years  of  his  marriage  (we  say  it 
in  a  whisper,  reader),  he  was  so  very  foolish  as  to  entertain 
something  like  the  thought  that  Manning  Farm  and  Long 
Acres  were  a  poor  exchange  for  the  pure  soul  and  loving  tones 
of  Lilian  Lovis.  But  he  was  prudent  as  well  as  dutiful,  and, 
in  a  few  years,  succeeded,  to  all  appearance,  in  burying  the 
image  of  his  youth,  together  with  that  of  his  meek-eyed  Lily, 
under  a  load  of  speculations  that  finally  made  him  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  the  county. 

For  some  time  after  Harry  Gresham's  marriage,  Lilian 
Lovis'  eyes  had  a  dreamy  look,  and,  not  unfrequently,  a 
bright  drop  gathered  on  the  long  lashes,  and  fell  silently 
down  her  cheek.  Still  she  did  not  repine.  She  had  been  too 
deeply  schooled  in  the  "  meek  lessons  of  humanity  "to  do 
that.  Harry  had  obeyed  his  parents  —  fulfilled  the  com- 
mandment —  and,  with  her  New  England  education,  she  could 
not  blame  him.  With  an  earnest  effort  to  gather  the  sun- 
shine into  her  heart  once  more,  she  lifted  her  head,  and  sought 
strength  and  comfort  in  the  strict  performance  of  such  duties 
as  fell  to  her  lot. 

Lily  was  still  young  when  her  mother  died;  but  she  had  a 
high  character  for  faithfulness  and  honesty,  and  this  drew 
upon  her  th§  attention  of  old,  rich,  rheumatic  John  Saunders. 
He  wanted  a  wife,  or,  rather,  a  nurse  and  housekeeper  under 
that  name,  and  his  choice  fell  upon  Lily. 

She  hesitated  —  but  friends  whispered,  nay  shouted,  max- 
ims of  prudence  and  worldly  wisdom  in  her  ears,  mingled 
with  hints  of  dependence,  until,  bewildered,  confused,  with  a 
shudder  which  she  prayed  Heaven  to  forgive,  as  the  move- 
ment of  a  rebellious  heart,  she  laid  her  hand  in  the  bony  one 
that  reached  out  to  grasp  hers,  and  gave  him  the  name  of 
husband. 

For  many  long  months  her  new  home  seemed  dark  and 


LILIAN    LOVIS.  347 

empty,  —  but  "  something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish," 
and,  as  her  husband  grew  more  and  more  feeble,  pity  took  the 
place  of  love,  and  led  her  to  think  of  him  with  a  feeling  nearly 
akin  to  that  which  a  mother  feels  towards  a  peevish,  suffering 
child.  Irritable  and  impatient,  he  could  not  bear  to  trust  her 
from  .his  sight ;  and  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  Lily  soon 
faded  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  that  sick-chamber,  while  the 
flower-dust  of  the  heart  was  daily  brushed  away  by  some  new 
exaction  on  the  part  of  the  querulous  invalid.  Yet  he  loved 
her,  as  well  as  he  was  capable  of  loving  anything  aside  from 
himself,  and  thought  he  made  ample  compensation  for  all  her 
care  and  patience  by  leaving  her  a  competence  in  his  will. 
So  thought  her  friends  when,  after  a  lingering  struggle  of 
many  years,  he  at  length  yielded  to  death.  They  spoke  much 
of  his  generosity,  and  Lilian  assented  to  their  remarks  with- 
out comprehending  them. 

After  so  many  years  of  seclusion  their  voices  annoyed  her. 
She  had  not  loved  old  John  Saunders  as  a  wife  —  she  could 
not ;  but  his  pale,  wrinkled  face,  peering  over  the  back  of  his 
arm-chair,  watching  her  every  movement  —  his  sharp,  queru- 
lous tones,  calling  her  name  until  he  obtained  a  reply,  were  it 
a  thousand  times,  had,  by  the  mere  force  of  habit,  become  a 
part  of  her  daily  life,  of  herself —  and  now,  in  her  utter  iso- 
lation, she  often  turned  from  the  condolence  that  sounded  so 
much  like  congratulation,  towards  that  old  arm-chair,  almost 
expecting,  and  half  wishing,  to  hear  again  his  sharp-toned 
"  Lilian."  Her  long  confinement  had  unfitted  her  for  the 
rush  and  stir  of  life ;  but  she  gradually  grew  to  be  an  oracle 
at  births  and  deaths  —  a  rare  compounder  of  embrocations 
and  syrups,  and  nurse  to  the  whole  town.  To  these  she 
united  another  occupation  —  that  of  shroud-maker ;  and  many 
a  time  have  I  watched  her  attenuated  fingers  pressing  the 
long  needle  through  the  starched  muslin,  and  thought,  if  the 
white  folds  were  only  gathered  around  her,  the  illusion  would 
be  complete.  Life  and  death,  a  funeral  or  a  birth,  seemed 


348          LEAVES  FROM  THE  TREK  IQDRASYL. 

alike  to  her ;  and,  to  me,  she  was  a  being  without  human  sym- 
pathies. But  I  was  mistaken.  One  chord  in  the  harp  of 
life  still  vibrated  to  the  music  of  earth.  On  the  day  before 
her  death  the  rich  Judge  Gresham,  while  presiding  at  a  meet- 
ing of  the  directors  of  the railroad,  was  taken  with  a  fit 

of  apoplexy.  He  lived  but  a  few  hours,  but,  during  that 
time,  succeeded  in  .making  a  few  orders  and  requests  under- 
stood. One  was,  that  Lilian  Saunders  should  make  his 
shroud.  The  person  who  conveyed  the  order  to  Aunt  Saun- 
ders did  not  note  the  trembling  of  her  hands,  or  the  sudden 
gleam  of  her  eye,  as  n*e  mentioned  the  death  of  her  early 
lover  and  his  request.  For  some  seconds  after  the  door 
closed  upon  the  messenger,  she  stood  gazing  at  the  snowy 
folds  of  cambric  in  her  hand,  as  in  a  dream.  "  'T  is  more 
than  forty  years  since,"  she  murmured,  as  she  mechanically 
laid  the  cambric  on  her  pillow,  and  pressed  her  cheek  against 
the  white  folds.  For  a  few  moments,  perchance  hours,  she 
was  again  his  Lily,  and  then  —  Death  and  Mercy  took  her 
home. 


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